With This Ring, I Thee Wed
by Ladyhawke 620
Summary: Story 9 - Takes place after "Regrets", a place where Airwolf's crew's past has a way of meeting with it's present. We often think about the for better part when we marry, but what about the for worse...?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer - Set in the timeline originally created by Rachel500, of ten years after Dom's death in the events of the original Blackjack episode, this story utilizes characters created and owned by Belisarius and Universal from the original Airwolf series as well as USA's Airwolf II season. They are not mine and I make no claim to them or profit from them. No copyright infringement is intended. The characters of Seb, Nicky and Amelia were created by Rachel500 and belong to her. However, do be warned, as of Rachel500's last story (One of the family)and this one, the story lines have taken a divergent note. (Hey, I guess it had to happen sometime).

Introduction - "With This Ring, I Thee Wed" is the ninth story in this vein. It takes place shortly after the events of "Regrets". It is on the whole a story I hope you will like, though it took me a lot longer than I ever anticipated.

* * *

**With This Ring, I Thee Wed -**

_For Byron, sweet dreams til we meet again  
_

_

* * *

  
_

_"Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13  
_

Memories pressed in, thick and smothering. Whimpering, Jo knew she'd been here before - the familiarity wrapping itself around her even as she fought recognition.

_The sun warm and soft, caressed her skin, the sand hot beneath her toes. Behind her she could hear Karen's laugh, joyous and teasing. Glancing up, blue eyes lit reassuringly on the tow-headed child at the water's edge sand pail in hand._

_She smiled watching her. Turning, Bella raised a chubby hand, grinning. "Look mommy!" she called waving. "Look!"_

_Jo waved, watching her daughter's delight at the sea lapping at her toes, hearing her delighted squeals as the waves rolled over tiny, sandy pink-tipped toenails._

_Laughing she shook her head. She'd thought Bella too young to take to the beach, wondering if she'd be scared of the limitless blue waves and roaring ocean._

_Saint John in typical male fashion had rolled his eyes at her fears. "Go, Jo," he'd laughed when she'd debated going with her college friend and her kids. "String and I have a charter to Monterey Saturday. We'll be gone all day and Cait's taken the kids to visit friends. There's no need for you to be stuck up here at Santini Air all day."_

"_You're sure?" she'd asked doubtfully._

"_Yeah," Saint john had grinned. "She'll love it, won't she String?"_

"_Yeah," String had smiled, his blue eyes lighting warmly on her face. "There's no reason for you to stay here, Jo. Cait's got the other chopper, Sinj and I have this one, it's not like there's a lot else to hire out except the Stearman." He nodded his head to where the bi-plane sat on the other side of the hanger, her engine in the midst of a rebuild. "Somehow, I don't think she'll be going anywhere anytime soon."_

_Worrying her lip, Jo turned to her husband, hopefully. "You're sure?"_

_Catching her around the waist, he swung his petite wife to him laughing, planting a lazy kiss on her lips. "Yeah, Jo. I'm sure."_

_Watching the two of them from the top of the ladder, up to his elbows in the guts of the Santini Air chopper, String had grinned. "Hey, you two get a room," he'd teased. Chuckling, Sinj had thrown a grease rag at his brother ignoring him…_

"_Hey, Jo…"_

_Startled, Jo pulled her wandering thoughts back, giving the little blonde girl at the water's edge one last glance before turning back to her friend. "Yeah, Karen?" she asked, eyeing the vivacious brunette with sparkling mocha-colored eyes._

"_How 'bout giving me a hand fixing sandwiches?" she asked, grabbing the bottle of soda out of her youngest's hands before it toppled onto the beach._

_Jo smiled, watching the blonde-headed imp immediately head for the bag of chips. The third of three kids and two, Charlie epitomized everything they said about the terrible two's. "Sure," she laughed, reaching for the mayonaise and egg salad._

Muttering, Jo stirred restlessly, knowing the rest of the dream wasn't so pleasant, yet unable to escape it somehow. She tossed, fingers pulling fretfully at the blankets around her.

_The wind blew in off the ocean, whipping honeyed blonde hair into her eyes. Jo Santini Hawke turned, egg salad sandwich in her hands, Karen's crew momentarily appeased. Laughter lines creasing her eyes, she squinted against the sun. "Bella!" she called. "Come on sweetie, time to eat!"_

_There was no answer._

_Frowning, Jo glanced out at the water line, trying to spot the bright pink swimsuit._

_It wasn't there._

"_Bella?" she called, putting the sandwich down on the cooler beside her._

_Karen looked up from the sand-covered towel at her feet, Charlie squirming in her arms. "Jo? Everything okay?"_

_Blue eyes glancing quickly at her friend, Jo shot her a reassuring smile. "I'm sure it is, I just don't see Bella."_

_Karen started to rise, pushing off the towel._

_Jo glanced from the beach back to her friend, her heart starting to thud in her chest. "Go ahead, eat Karen. I'm sure it's nothing."_

_Absently, she grabbed her hat up off the chair and headed towards the water's edge._

_Behind her, she could hear Karen telling Susan, her oldest to keep an eye on Charlie and his brother, joining her from behind._

She whimpered, fingers clutching the edge of the blankets.

_She kept walking. "Bella!" she called, blue eyes scanning the beach._

_A group of kids building sandcastles at the water's edge, a blonde in a pink bathing suit catching her eye. Relief swelled, crashing just as soon as she turned, realizing it wasn't her daughter._

_The incoming tide rolled across her feet, dropping a sand bucket in front of her. Stumbling over it, she glanced down, instantly recognizing it as the flowered one Bella had had earlier in the day. Panic clawed its way to her throat. Oh, Lord, where was she? She wondered, the frantic prayer beating at her thoughts._

_A commotion up the beach had her turning, a gaggle of kids at the water's edge, the noise level rising. And stomach sinking, Jo knew. "Bella!" she whispered, a sob threatening to choke her. Feet pounding the sand beneath her, she ran. "Bella!"_

_A rangy teenager stumbled out of the surf, a small limp form against his chest, bedraggled blonde hair streaming over his forearm._

_A woman in the crowd screamed, pointing._

_The boy, no more than fifteen or sixteen shoved past the growing crowd, dropping down on the white sand with the child, frantically going through the motions of CPR._

_Heart pounding, breath rasping in her lungs, Jo ran sobbing, staggering, shoving her way through the crowd, Karen on her heels._

"_No!" she cried, tears choking her, a keening wail working it's way up to her throat. "No, Bella!" she screamed in desperation. "Please, no!"_

_And then she was on her hands and knees beside him, her horrified blue eyes meeting his tear-filled, shocky brown ones over her baby's still form._

"_I'm sorry," he whispered in an anguished voice, his lips trembling. "I'm so sorry, I tried….really lady, I tried." An older woman pushed her way through the crowd, wrapping a towel around his shoulders as he shuddered in shock._

"_No, Bella, no!" she sobbed, Karen's arm wrapping around her._

Jo jolted awake, her own sobbing wrenching her awake. She shoved aside the tangled, sweat-soaked sheets, lungs screaming for air. "Bella," she gasped, telling herself it was all only a nightmare, before reality came crashing back in, reminding her the reality was worse than any nightmare.

She drew in a heaving breath, nausea roiling through her stomach, cramping it, the bitter taste of bile in her throat choking her. Suddenly frantic, she flung the blankets aside as she stumbled for the bathroom praying she made it in time.

Afterwards, she sat on the cold, damp tile sobbing for a long time. Wearily leaning her head against a trembling hand she willed away the nausea, tears rolling down her cheeks.

* * *

Seated on the exam table, aviator shades on the bench beside him Stringfellow Hawke waited out Dr. Monique Branscomb's examination.

"No haloing?" she asked, shining the penlight into his sapphire blue eyes. "No problems with peripheral vision?"

"No," he sighed, shifting impatiently.

"How about floaters, unexplained blackouts, graying?"

"No," he muttered, feeling his short patience begin to fray. "It seems pretty much back to normal, Monique."

Tilting his head back, she clicked the penlight brighter, watching his pupils constrict as he winced.

"Light sensitive, huh?" she asked sympathetically, stepping down from the stool.

"Yeah," he admitted, knuckling his right eye, wondering anxiously if he'd just blown his chances of getting his pilot's certification back.

"Stop that," she muttered, whacking him with the file.

Jerking his hand away, he scowled. "Well?"

"Well, what?" she murmured, chewing on her pen thoughtfully as she made some notes in his chart.

He huffed in exasperation. "So, what's the verdict? Do I get my certification back or not? Can I fly?"

Startled brown eyes met his across the clipboard, as she realized she'd been so busy taking notes she'd forgotten to tell him. A wicked grin started to tug at her mouth. He was like a little kid at Christmas, the suspense and anticipation killing him, she thought vaguely amused.

For a moment, she toyed with teasing him, before tossing the thought aside as cruel. Hawke lived to fly, nobody knew better than her how hard these past few weeks had been on him.

"Yeah, String," she murmured, her warm sherry brown eyes twinkling. "You've got your certification back."

Whooping, he hopped down from the exam bench, grabbing her, swinging her around and thoroughly bussing her on the cheek.

Laughing, Monique Branscomb grabbed for her chignon before he finished tumbling it down.

Turning the handle, Caitlin Hawke stepped through the doorway, arching her eyebrow at her husband and the rather flustered doctor. "Something I should know, Hawke?" she asked archly, trying to hide her own grin, knowing there'd been only one reason he'd acquiesced to the check-up today, and she'd been hoping against hope the news would be good.

He released Monique Branscomb, reaching for his wife, his own eyes more than a little devilish as his fingers locked with hers. "Yeah," he grinned, hauling her to him. "I'll be flying us home when we leave here today, woman." He planted an enthusiastic kiss on her lips.

"Really?" Cait teased, looking up at him as Monique Branscomb slipped silently from the room.

"Yeah, really," Hawke whispered, his blue eyes searching her blue-green ones. He cuddled her closer in his arms, her arms wrapping around his lean waist.

"Anybody ever tell you how beautiful you are?" he rasped huskily, appreciating her beauty all the more after the last few weeks.

She shrugged. "Maybe once or twice?" she replied, feeling the blush climb up her neck.

"Only once or twice?" he murmured, watching her face. "Then your husband ought to be shot."

Devilment teased her own expression momentarily. "I think maybe he was," she retorted.

Groaning, String chuckled, his own eyes crinkling around the corners as he tilted her head back, tenderly kissing her. "Guess we're going to have to work on that," he muttered. "Right after I fly us home."


	2. Chapter 2

Saint John Hawke scowled down at the paperwork littering his desk with a baleful glare. Between String's nearly illegible scrawl and a column of figures that came nowhere near to adding up, he was about ready to rip out his hair.

_How long did a doctor's appointment take anyway?_

Frowning, he realized his mood had less to do with the never-ending stack of paperwork Santini Air generated and the fact it was in the red again, and a lot more to do with his unease about his brother.

It'd been fourteen weeks since String had been at the helm of anything airborne - excepting of course, that little incident of flying Airwolf blind with Caitlin for back-up.

The question still remained though as to whether Monique Branscomb would return him to flight status though…he couldn't imagine what String'd do if she didn't, didn't want to think bout the blow that'd be.

A knock at the open door, snatched away his attention.

Startled, his gaze flew to meet the dark brown eyes of a slender Vietnamese woman stood there. Surely, no more than 5'6" in the heels she wore and long, ebony hair falling over her shoulders, she was stunning.

She was also wearing a suit.

He frowned. _Not a good sign._

"Yes?" he asked, praying she wasn't a process server, remembering the irate customer Cait had almost planted across the windscreen of the jet ranger last week when he'd decided his flight fee had entitled him to a little more than just airtime.

Just as well String hadn't been here. He was certain she'd be one if he had. Not that he'd blame him.

She smiled at him. "Saint John Hawke?" she queried. "Co-owner of Santini Air with a Mr. Stringfellow Hawke?"

"Yeah," he replied. Either this was one whopper of a suit, or this was going to be really bad. "May I help you?"

"Is Stringfellow here?"

"No," he replied, shrugging uneasily. "He had an appointment. Is there something I can help you with in the meantime?"

She frowned, dark brown gaze dropping shyly to the floor and breaking contact with his. "No," she sighed, taking a seat in one of the chairs outside the office door. "I'll just wait for my husband here."

* * *

"Santini Air to Santini One. Santini Air to Santini One. Hawke, are you there?"

Saint John's troubled unease clearly telegraphed itself across the airwaves.

Frowning, Hawke reached across the cockpit and flipped the radio switch, raising an eyebrow at Cait as he did so.

She shrugged.

"Saint John, this is String. I read you. What's up?"

"Need you to swing by the hanger," Saint John replied tersely.

"Sure," Hawke said, altering direction as he spoke. "Everything okay, there?"

"Just come," Saint John said. "There's someone here looking for you and I think you'd better speak to her."

* * *

The red, white and blue Santini jet ranger flared above the tarmac outside the hanger, String's enthusiasm to be back behind the stick tempered by Saint John's enigmatic radio call.

What exactly was up? It wasn't like Sinj to be deliberately obtuse. A million thoughts raced through his mind, none of them good.

To the best of his knowledge things had been reasonably quiet around Red Star as of late, rebuilding efforts taking most of their resources. Sinj and Mike had taken care of any Lady related business with some help from Roper.

At least, as far as he knew.

That was the part that bothered him. Not for a second did he think Saint John or the others wouldn't try to protect him if they thought it in his best interests.

He frowned, reaching for the Walther PPK beside the seat.

"String?" Cait questioned, turning worried eyes on him. "Something I should know?"

He shot her a distracted glance as he checked the clip in the gun. "Nah, Cait, probably nothing," he rejoined. "Just rather be safe than sorry."

She nodded, not entirely sure she believed him. Reaching for the cockpit door, she started to open it and swing out.

A strong hand on her arm stilled her. "How 'bout you wait here?" he asked, his voice low. "Please? Just let me check it out first."

She sighed, feeling a frown furrow her forehead as she did so.

He waited until she nodded reluctantly, brushing a quick kiss across her lips. "Back soon," he promised, dropping out of the helicopter, heading for the hanger at a silent run.

Twenty feet out from the open hanger he ground to a stunned halt, pocketing the gun in his loose jacket.

Eyes narrowed, Cait watched him, her hand uneasily seeking her own weapon. Probably nothing, she told herself, dropping out of the helicopter, but picking up her gun anyways she headed after him.

Stuttering to a halt, Stringfellow Hawke stared at his brother and the slight, dark-haired woman beside him. A woman he'd thought he'd never see again. "Tuyen?" he rasped, trying to get past the sudden lump in his throat. "I don't believe it. Is it really you?"

She spun on high heels, her warm brown eyes crinkling with joy at seeing him again. "Hawke!" she exclaimed, the accent as lilting and soft as he remembered it. "It is you!"

Swallowing hard, String tried to breathe past the iron band that seemed to have wrapped itself around his chest, squeezing every bit of air out of his lungs; totally missing the worried look Saint John shot his way.

His thoughts were jumbled, chaotic as the memories of those long ago days in 'Nam threatened to overwhelm him. What had seemed like a lifetime ago, suddenly seemed like only yesterday.

Hawke shook off the memories of "Nam with difficulty. "What're you doing here?" he whispered hoarsely, relieved to find his voice still worked.

The welcoming smile on her lips faltered and the light in her eyes dimmed. "You are not happy to see me, Hawke?" she queried uncertainly, her tone doubtful. Her gaze hit the floor in embarrassment. "I am sorry. I have overstepped my bounds."

Hawke caught the shift and realized he'd stuck his foot in it again. Just once, he wondered in annoyance, couldn't he get it right? Hurriedly, striding across the concrete hanger floor, he grabbed her hand as she started to turn away.

"Wait, Tuyen!" he rasped. "I'm sorry," the apology stumbling out across startled lips. "You just caught me by surprise."

Behind him, Caitlin walked into the hanger, her anxious glance taking in the scene in front of her.

"You're not angry?" the Vietnamese woman asked, raising tear-filled dark eyes to Hawke's.

Puzzled, his blue eyes met hers. "No, Tuyen," he assured her. "I'm not angry. I would never be sorry to see you. You know that." Grinning, he pulled her close in a welcoming hug, before releasing her.

Relieved, she smiled up at him, her dark eyes flashing. "It is not right for a husband to be angry at a wife," she murmured.

The slow grin he gave her was amused. "No, I suppose not."


	3. Chapter 3

Vietnam - Fall 1969  
November 28 - 7:45 pm

"Come on, Hawke, lighten up," Reynolds teased. "You've got to be the most uptight guy I've ever met."

Quirking an irritated eyebrow over startlingly blue eyes, Stringfellow Hawke shifted his M-16 rifle on his shoulder before glancing over at his buddy. "Really?" he muttered. "Could that be because your girlfriend lives out here in Charlie's neck of the woods and I was stupid enough to let you talk me into coming along or the fact we're out here without leave? You do know the kinda trouble we'll get in if we get caught, don't 'cha, Scott?"

The baby -faced soldier beside him with the shock of blonde hair grimaced momentarily, before the gleam of excitement brightened his own hazel eyes once more. "Yeah, I'm aware String, but even you couldn't deny a man the chance to see his own kid be born could you?"

Nineteen-year old Stringfellow Hawke tried to resist the grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth at his buddy's words and failed. "Nah, I don't suppose I could, Reynolds. You'd just better not get us shot."

Twenty-one year old Reynolds smirked. "Hey, I'm charmed and you know it, Hawke. I've already got the prettiest girl in South Vietnam. What more could a guy want?"

Amusement slid across Hawke's features. "A son?"

Scott's grin widened at his buddy's words. "Well, that too, maybe," he acknowledged. Shifting his own rifle, the two walked on in companionable silence towards the village one click away.

Hawke shifted his grip on his weapon, the vague feeling of disquiet that'd gripped him the last 500 or so yards returning. Uneasily, blue eyes scanned the forest around them, Colonel Burns's words echoing in his head.

Alerts of increased Vietcong activity around the camp had been issued days ago, creating extra guard duty for everyone. He'd known without asking there was no way the Colonel would sanction Reynolds's trip off to one of the local villages, when word had come from one of the locals that Tuyen was about to give birth to his baby.

He'd also known Reynolds was going to see her anyway, would move heaven and earth to do so and that his bunkmate was probably the worst shot in the whole camp.

Wanting to go or not, Stringfellow Hawke didn't see as he had a lot of choice. He wasn't about to turn Reynolds in for wanting to see his kid born and he sure couldn't let him go alone.

Sighing, he trudged on in silence, his hand still on his gun.

---

Long, dark hair clinging to her sweat-soaked neck, Tuyen Vanh Truong's slender arms cuddled the dark-haired baby boy who nuzzled at her breast. Her fingers brushed his cheeks, wondering at the blue eyes he had - so unlike hers and her family's.

Scott's eyes, she thought with a grin.

She had so hoped he'd come when Linh Mai had said she'd take word to him. Unfortunately, the older woman had not yet returned.

A worried frown furrowed her brow. It was not like her godmother to be late. She knew soldiers had been in the area lately, rumors of sympathizers abounded and livestock around the village had been disappearing with alarming numbers.

Surely, they would not bother an old woman though?

A couple of American GI's though might be another story. Somehow, she sensed if Scott came, his friend Hawke would as well.

---

"So, you planning on marrying her?" Hawke asked, frowning at the blonde head in front of him on the trail. The itch between his shoulder blades was getting stronger though the closer they got to the village and no matter how many times he glanced over his shoulder, he couldn't catch sight of the presence that he knew lurked out there in the underbrush.

Reynolds head swung back his way, the light blue eyes clearly distracted with thoughts of Tuyen. "Hmm?"

"I said, you planning on marrying her?" Hawke asked, even as he kicked himself for the words. He knew it was none of his business what Reynolds did, but he couldn't help wondering what would happen to a kid born out here without a father.

Thoughts of losing his own parents crowded in and he shoved them away with ruthless determination.

It was bad enough losing a brother, he thought. What would it be like to never know your father.

Scott glanced at him soberly. "Yes, mother Hawke," he teased. "I'm planning on doing the right thing. Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

"Nah," String replied, relief lighting his eyes. His step a little lighter he picked up his pace, listening to his friend ramble on about plans to marry Tuyen and to take her home with him when he went on leave, he'd already written to his parents they had a grandbaby on the way.

The uneasy prickle didn't leave the back of his neck though.

---

Stunned, Caitlin Hawke stared at her husband. Well, okay she thought he was her husband, suddenly not sure what to think. California didn't recognize bigamy did it? Grief, she thought, she was going to be sick.

No, no, surely not. She must've misheard, misunderstood. She looked to Saint John for assurance she'd just lost her mind - temporarily.

He looked as shell-shocked as she was.

Fumbling, Cait reached for the tail boom of the helicopter beside her, afraid if she didn't catch it, she'd fall on her face.

"Hawke?" she whispered in a strangled voice.

How he heard her she'd never know, but once again his sharp hearing didn't disappoint. He turned, his arm still loosely draped around Tuyen's waist.

He grinned. "Cait, I'd like you to meet…" he began.

"I heard," she murmured, her right fist clenching against her stomach and every freckle standing out against her pale skin. "What I haven't heard yet, is an explanation."

Bewildered, String shot a confused glance first at her and then Saint John's way.

His older brother looked no happier with him.

Comprehension slammed into him like a gut punch as he realized what Tuyen had said and that they'd both obviously heard. He'd never told Dom about Tuyen, afraid he'd never be able to make the older man understand and Sinj had already been missing at the time.

Telling Cait years later had never crossed his mind…

Evidently it should have, he thought with a sick glance at her shocked face.

Instinctively, his arm jerked away from Tuyen's waist, putting some distance between them. "I can explain, Cait," he began.

"Well, I would hope so," she fired back, hurt clearly in her eyes.

Grimacing, he wondered if there was an explanation good enough…

November 28, 8 pm 1969

The feeling of unease didn't leave Hawke's neck as he followed Reynolds into the small Vietnamese village. If anything, it was getting stronger.

Warily, he cast one last glance over his shoulder as he followed Scott into the hooch. Ducking, he stepped through the rough door.

He heard the soft exclamation of breath before he saw her, half-hidden in the flickering lamplight. Hair dark as midnight falling in an ebony curtain around her shoulders, she held a tiny, squirming baby to her breast.

Flushing, he turned an embarrassed glance elsewhere.

"You came!" Tuyen cried, her soft voice excited at Reynolds by his side.

Scott chuckled, his voice low. "You knew I would."

Trying to sidle back out the door, Hawke heard rather than saw Scott make his way across the hooch. Reaching over he lifted the baby into his arms.

"Hey, String, come meet my boy," he called, his voice proud.

Hawke winced, feeling the heat climb his neck. He'd thought he'd made his escape. "Nah, Reynolds. Maybe later," he muttered, heading for the door.

Reynolds laughed. "Come on, Hawke. Don't be such a prude. Guy doesn't get to show off his new kid just everyday."

---

"I'm waiting, Hawke," Cait's barely discernable whisper cut through his thoughts.

---

November 28, 8:07pm 1969

The sharp retort of rifle fire echoed across the village sending a jolt of awareness through Hawke. Scrambling up from his knees Hawke reached for his M-16, Reynolds a little faster as he grabbed his gun and headed out the door.

Tangled in baby blankets String cursed, trying to hand Reynold's squalling, half-naked son back to Tuyen. Mostly, she just looked terrified.

"Reynolds, wait!" he yelled, foisting the crying baby at her.

Tuyen started to scramble to her knees. "Scott!"

The screams from outside grew louder, joined by the sound of rifle fire and the crash of what sounded like an overturned ox cart. Tuyen was on her feet now, the baby in her arms as she ran for the door barefoot.

A heartbeat behind her, Hawke lunged for her, rifle in hand. "Stay here!" he yelled. "Lu 'u lai o day!" Snatching her arm, he hauled her behind him.

Adrenaline rushing through his veins, he slammed out of the hooch in search of Scott.

The dark night air was awash in flames. Around him men, women and children ran screaming throughout the village. The sharp retort of rifle fire in the air, the sense of terror was palpable. Reynolds was nowhere to be found.

Gun in hand, Hawke slammed down the steps the only thought in his mind - find Reynolds. He stumbled, nearly hitting the dirt in his haste.

Around the corner, a dark-skinned Vietnamese man in fatigues stepped out AK-47 raised. In horror, Hawke recognized the attire of the PRU - South Vietnam's elite recon units known for their erradication of the Viet Cong and sometimes whole villages.

Behind the soldier, Hawke saw Reynolds step out, raising his own gun, firing.

And for once he didn't miss, he thought, the breath whooshing out of his lungs as he watched the PRU soldier die in front of him. Knowing he'd been granted a reprieve he didn't deserve, Hawke raised grateful blue eyes to his friend.

Only to watch in horror as the next round of bullets mowed him down.

Instinctively, Hawke ducked, sucking in a heaving breath, running pell mell up the stairs, knowing if he didn't get himself and Tuyen out of here in a hurry they'd both be long dead.

Barging through the door, he met Tuyen's shell-shocked brown eyes. "We've gotta go!" he gasped. "Didi mau!"

She shook her head frantically, hysterically. "No, no Scott! Not leave without Scott!"

Never long on tact and fast running out of time String blurted out the brutal truth. "He's dead, Tuyen! Dead!"

Seeing the tears fill her eyes, String cursed himself for being seven kinds of clod even as he tried to shove her for the door.

A booted step on the threshold had him spinning.

A single shot caught him across the ribs, impact slamming him down, Tuyen's screams in his ears. "No VC! No VC!" she sobbed, throwing her hands up as a South Vietnamese army issue boot caught Hawke in the ribs on the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

Stringfellow Hawke sighed, knowing the explanation to his wife and Saint John was going to take awhile. He raked a hand through brown fringe and wearily down the back of his neck. Motioning to the office, he said, "You might as well sit."

* * *

November 28, 8:10 pm 1969

Kneeling, Tuyen flung herself in front of Hawke, still screaming. "Xin mo`i! No VC! Ngu` mói chông tôi, mỹ! My husband, American! No kill, no kill!"

Suspicious dark slanted eyes narrowed, before letting loose with a barrage of Vietnamese.

Struggling for breath Hawke gasped for air, blearily trying to roll over. The heavy boot the PRU soldier stomping down across his fingers pretty much put an end to that.

"Prove it," the man snarled in harsh English. "Prove it, or I kill you both, now!"

Nearly hysterical, Tuyen sobbed on the floor beside Hawke.

The man raised his gun, clearly about to make good on his threat.

Frantic, Hawke realized this was not how he wanted to die as he fought to wrench his hand free.

The jingle of metal against metal caught his attention. "Dogtags," he whispered.

Tuyen kept crying.

Desperate, Hawke forced the word past split and bloody lips. "Dogtags!" he rasped, clawing for the chain around his neck, snatching it free, shaking them. "American! Mỹ, mỹ!"

The dark-skinned soldier hesitated, shoving him back to the floor with a booted heel. Dirty brown fingers wrapped around the dog tags perusing.

He leveled obsidian black eyes at Hawke. "Ngu'òi chông?" he demanded.

String shot a questioning glance at Tuyen, struggling for the word, unsure.

The chain around his neck tightened as the soldier wrapped it around his fist, shaking it, choking him. "Soldier, husband?" he demanded in fractured English.

Tuyen was nodding frantically.

Following her lead, Hawke nodded, gasping. "Vâng, yes. American."

The soldier scowled, "Ngu'òi chông?"

Lost, Hawke shot another quick glance Tuyen's way. She nodded.

"Vâng, ngu'òi chông" he agreed.

Disgusted, the soldier dropped him to the floor, snorting derisively. "Stupid Americans," he snarled. Turning, he kicked String's M-16 rifle out of range as he stomped out the door.

He shouted a barrage of orders there, gesturing his men on, clattering down the steps, the sounds of chaos and destruction following him.

Gathering up the whimpering baby from the far corner, Tuyen collapsed against Hawke, sobbing brokenly. Wincing, String stroked her hair, willing his own pounding heart rate back to normal as he tried to ignore the sticky, seeping feel of his own blood running down his side.

* * *

Afternoon, November 30, 1969

Dazed, Hawke awoke. The heat was oppressive and his shirt clung to him like a second skin. A tiny fist flailed and struck him in the eye and he jerked back in surprise. "What the…" he groaned, drawing back, narrowly avoiding a second hit.

Tuyen hurried towards him across the bare floor, a damp rag in hand. "Shhh-h, rest, Hawke," she murmured kneeling beside him with worried eyes.

Her face was dirty and she looked like she'd been crying. She stroked the rag across his forehead.

Lukewarm or not, it was bliss.

Frowning, he tried to piece broken thoughts together, running his tongue across dry and cracked lips. "How long?" he croaked, pinning her with his dark gaze.

She hesitated, her gaze dropping from his. "Two days," she murmured.

He winced, suddenly placing the acrid stench in the air, the sight of Scott dying before him filling his mind's eye. _Gone. Gone in a heartbeat, just like Sinj, and Mace and so many others…_

_No, not Sinj, he thought defiantly, jaw clenching. He was alive, he'd find him somehow, someway. He had to._

He swallowed, closing his eyes against the pain; wondering how he was going to explain this, wondering if it was even worth trying.

The baby squirmed again, threatening mayhem with miniature fists. Setting aside the rag, Tuyen gently reached over, tucking his hands tightly into the ragged blanket and against Hawke. He promptly wiggled free again, batting the air.

"Sorry," she whispered, slanting him a hesitant glance.

String ducked back, shifting the baby lower feeling him kick at his still sore ribs. "Strong," he whispered hoarsely, feeling a wry grin tug at his mouth.

She nodded embarrassed. "Sorry. Xin lôi. I try to take care of him and you…same time." She sighed. "Not so good."

Hawke frowned, realizing she'd lost her lover, had a baby, seen her village burned and been held at gunpoint all in a space of less than 48 hours. Taking care of him and a newborn baby didn't exactly seem like a fair trade off. _No wonder she looked dirty and tired._

"Your village?" he rasped.

"Gone," she muttered with a pained shrug, the brown eyes dropping, refusing to meet his gaze, but not before he caught the glisten of tears in them.

The baby squirmed again, turning curious blue eyes on him. He quieted, shoving a fist in his mouth.

Hawke raised a startled eyebrow. "Blue eyes?" he asked, in surprise.

Tuyen cracked the first smile he'd seen. "Scott's eyes," she declared proudly.

"Yeah," he whispered, flashing her a somewhat sad grin of his own watching the dark lashes flutter shut, thinking of his friend dying in front of him. Somehow, he had to come up with a way to get them all out of this. He owed Scott that much.

* * *

December 1, 1969

Dawn was seeping over the tree tops when a slender Vietnamese girl and a bruised and bleeding Stringfellow Hawke stumbled to a halt at the perimeter of the fenced camp.

Staggering, Hawke wavered, Tuyen's baby cradled against him in a blood-stained sling.

"Halt!" the command was unmistakable, the sharp click of a M-16 rifle resolving any questions there might be about it being an order. "Who goes there?"

Dazed, Hawke shook his head, nearly falling, struggling to formulate the words. "Second lieutenant Hawke," he slurred.

The young guard at the sentry post shifted uneasily, training his gun on them. The man looked like a GI, but that didn't explain the girl.

Rumor had it, the base was short two soldiers this morning. Hawke and Reynolds.

It didn't explain Hawke showing up at his post though, he thought. Determinedly he tightened his grip on his gun. Stories of booby trapped captured soldiers flitted through his thoughts. "Who's the girl?" he demanded, narrowing his sights on her.

Hawke sensed, rather than saw the rifle being aimed on her. The irony of escaping a PRU death squad only to die at the hand of a sentry guard didn't escape him.

He sucked in a shuddering breath, staggering upright. "Private!" he bellowed, "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

The clatter of an automatic rifle against wood rasped at his ears, as the guard frantically realized he was drawing down on a superior officer. "Uh, sir?" he questioned, clearly bewildered and at a loss.

Hawke was starting to waver now, feeling his vision graying.

Beside him, Tuyen started to reach for his arm.

Imperceptively, he shook his head at her. Defiantly, he raised his chin, teeth clenching against the pain. The ice blue eyes narrowed on the private snapping to attention at his post.

"Open the gate, private," he snarled.

"Sir?" the man questioned.

Hawke fought the urge to grimace. "Private," he snarled, "The woods are crawling with VC and PRU troops. If you don't open that gate and let us in, I won't be the only one in need of a medic around here."

The man shot him a wary glance, trying to decide if he was serious.

He **was** serious.

"Sir, yes, sir!" he bit out, heading for the ladder at a run.

His yells for a medic were the last thing Hawke heard as he slid to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head. One hand cradled the baby to him as he fell, protecting it.

* * *

Wrapping her arms around her chest, Caitlin sighed shoving down a wave of sympathy she didn't want to feel. Even from where she stood, she could see the pain that edged Hawke's lean features. So far, the story sounded so patently like String her heart ached.

But how did he miss mentioning a wife?

Beside him, Tuyen reached for his hand, the gesture a comforting one, slender fingers interlacing with his strong, square-tipped ones.

Turning, Cait spun, hurt and jealousy filling her blue-green eyes. Angrily, she forced down the tears that threatened to spill over.

String glanced worriedly at his brother and then her. Rising, he started to reach for her.

Beside them, Saint John shifted against the desk, a frown drawing down across his features. His hazel eyes were troubled as he watched the two of them. _Just how did his lunkhead brother get himself into these messes?_

He still wasn't entirely sure he trusted Tuyen. He was certain though it'd have been far better for everybody if she hadn't shown up here. He sighed, rubbing the sudden ache in his own chest.

"You still haven't explained about the wife part," he rumbled hoarsely.

String's clear blue eyes met his own as he grimaced. He sighed, rubbing his chin in frustration. "Yeah," he murmured. "I guess not."


	5. Chapter 5

December 1, 1969

The first thing Hawke noticed was the pain. Sharp and stabbing, it cut across his ribs clawing with every breath he took. Gasping, he sucked in a heaving breath, nearly passing out again from it.

Lean fingers clutched at the sheets, tangling in them, pulling an IV line loose. New pain erupted, knifing through his arm.

He fought to bite back a moan. Sweat trickled down his neck.

Hesitantly, he drew in a second breath, carefully letting it out, wondering if he'd pass out from lack of air or pain first. The blue eyes blearily slitted open.

"Hey, Cathy, he's awake," a soft, feminine voice called at the edges of his vision.

The bustle of army issue fatigues whispered past, a pretty blonde nurse being joined at his side by an older brunette.

Pain clawed down his arm and he fought the urge to finish snatching the IV out.

_Getting shot hadn't hurt this bad._

"Decided to rejoin us I see, Second Lieutenant," the brunette murmured unsympathetically, reaching for the thermometer.

The blonde sidled past her, reaching for his arm, deftly removing the half-torn loose IV and pressing a pad of gauze to his arm where the needle had caused it to bleed. Efficiently, she worked to untangle the IV lines and snarled sheets. "Gave us quite a scare you did," she murmured, her violet eyes meeting his blue ones.

The brunette raised her head scowling. "Well, perhaps if Second Lieutenant Hawke stayed where he was supposed to be, he wouldn't be giving anybody any scares."

Wrapping his fingers around the gauze on his forearm, String winced. It wasn't hard to guess which one was in charge. "Wh, where's Tuyen?" he rasped hoarsely, working to get the words past a Sahara dry throat.

The blonde's violet eyes met his again as she reached for a cup of water on the stand next to the bed. "The Vietnamese girl you showed up with?" she asked.

Hawke nodded, suddenly overwhelmed with fear they'd turned her and the baby away.

His unease must've communicated itself to her 'cause she grinned. "She's fine," she murmured, handing him the cup. "Drink it slow. The morphine makes a lot of guys sick."

Afraid to trust his own voice, String reached for the cup with shaking hands.

Holding the cup for him, she rattled on. "The baby yours? He has the most incredible blue eyes…"

Choking, Hawke found himself spitting water.

"Which is more than I can say for you!" the brunette snapped. "That's enough, Sally Ann! You'll make him sick!"

The blonde jumped, sloshing water over the edge of the cup and onto the bed. "Sorry, she murmured contritely, starting to pull the cup away.

Hawke's fingers wrapped around her wrist. "Where?" he rasped hoarsely. "Where are they?"

Tugging, Sally Ann tried to pull away, shooting a worried glance towards the other nurse when he didn't let go.

"They're fine, Mr. Hawke," the brunette replied, impatiently slapping the clipboard she held down. "They were checked over and will be released later this afternoon. The baby was a little dehydrated, that's all."

Bemused, String found himself trying to make sense of her words. "Released?" he questioned. "What do you mean, released? There's no…"

The brunette frowned, shooing the blonde on. "Look," she sighed, settling down into the chair next to his bed. "You know as well as I do, there's no place for non-combatants in this camp." For once, sympathy darkened her tone. "They'll be treated and released as soon as their well enough."

She sighed. "Actually, considering the trouble you're in Second Lieutenant I'd suggest you worry about saving your own skin."

Struggling to sit up, Hawke frowned. "But there's no village for them to go back to…"

"I'm well aware of that, Second Lieutenant!" Catherine Douglas snapped. She winced at her own tone, rubbing the headache that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her forehead. Her tone softened, "Look Hawke, I'm sorry. Really I am, but rules are rules. You know that. If they aren't yours, they can't stay."

"They can't just throw them out!" String bit out, his tone harsh panic starting to settle in.

Catherine Douglas rose wearily to her feet. "Yeah, Hawke, they can and they will."

"…_Is he yours? He has the most incredible blue eyes…" _The thought was insane…he'd never get away with it.

Shoving away doubt, Hawke swallowed down hard on the panicked lump in his throat. "They're mine," he rasped hoarsely. "The baby's mine."

* * *

Across from him, String saw Cait wince, her arms wrapping around her waist as she paced. It was a lot to take in and he knew it, a lot he was asking from her.

"So the marriage is real?" she whispered.

He shot a glance at Saint John hoping for some help, pretty much anything…

His brother merely raised an eyebrow at him waiting.

He hauled in a heavy breath. "Yeah."

Caitlin spun on him, suddenly angry, not sure where to go with the sense of betrayal rising up to choke her, the hot tears spilling over. "Why, Hawke? Didn't you think I had a right to know?"

"Yeah. No. Maybe. I don't know!" Hawke replied, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. "It was a long time before us, Cait. I didn't even say anything to Dom…there didn't seem to be a lot of point in bringing it up."

"You might want to re-think that, String," Cait said, shooting Tuyen a tear-filled glance. "It doesn't appear to have been as long ago as you think."

Saint John shifted uneasily, pretty certain his brother was in over his head with this one.

"You did divorce her, I assume?" Caitlin snapped, her tone frosty.

String shot Tuyen a startled look. The thought had never occurred to him. He'd filled out the paperwork, mailed it back, considered it closed…it'd never occurred to him to check.

She shook her head.

"Evidently not," he replied with a wince.

* * *

December 1, 1969 - 3pm

Glaring in disgust at the half-hysterical Vietnamese girl and the squalling baby she held, Colonel Nicholas Burns chomped down on the cigar between his teeth, his already short temper frayed to the breaking point.

_Why his men couldn't keep it in their pants he'd never know._

Bad enough he'd had officers AWOL. Hawke and Reynolds running around the jungles getting themselves shot, now he had this to deal with.

He still hadn't written a letter home to Reynold's family either…

_What the hell had those two been doing outside of camp anyway?_

In the meantime, Headquarters was breathing down his neck about PRU troops destroying a village a mile outside his camp.

_Reynolds did this sort of thing on a regular basis. Hawke he'd thought had better sense._

"Get her out, Private!" he snarled, losing all sense of patience. "Now!" Whirling, he spun for his quarters and the dreaded letter home.

"Colonel, wait!" breathlessly, Major Catherine Douglas' voice rang out across the camp. "Sir!"

Grimacing, Nicholas Burns bit back a string of profanity. At best, he didn't like Major Douglas - always questioning his command, arguing about orders. The woman was a real pain in the …"

Grinding his teeth, he reminded himself she was also a damned fine surgeon, the best he was going to get out here and he couldn't court marshall her, no matter how badly he wanted to.

"Yes, Major?" he snapped.

Dark brown hair tumbling loose from the knot on her head, Major Douglas skidded to a halt in front of him, snapping a rather sloppy salute. "Sir, I really have to speak to you."

_Out of uniform too, it figured._

Burns fought the urge to have her hauled out with the Vietnamese chit. "What?"

The wailing stram of Vietnamese by the front gate got louder. Ah hell, he thought, like this wasn't bad enough for morale, now he was having to throw out some woman and her newborn. "Get her out, Private!" he yelled, taking a step towards them. "Now!"

And with that, Catherine Douglas, all 5'4" of her was in his face. "You can't do that, sir!" she yelled, blocking his way.

Abruptly slamming to a halt, Burns just barely managed to avoid running her over. _Had all his officers lost their minds today? _"Why the hell not, woman?" he snarled. "Last I checked I was the commanding officer around here!"

Throwing up her chin up, brown eyes flashing, Catherine Douglas faced him down unflinching. "Because that child is an American dependant and Stringfellow Hawke has demanded to marry the girl."

* * *

Colonel Nicholas Burns glared across his desk at a rather worn looking Stringfellow Hawke. Templing his fingers, he looked into the fever bright eyes over the paperwork in front of him and scowled.

Hawke wouldn't even still be under his command had one of the Air Cav's choppers not been shot down.

Despite recent events, he was one of his best soldiers…even if he was more than a little obsessive about hunting down his brother who'd been shot down.

Maybe it would be best for all concerned to send him stateside for a while though.

He glanced at the paper stack sitting in front of him and sighed. "Maybe you'd better explain it to me again Hawke." Out of the corner of his eye he caught the waver in the other's stance, before he caught himself. "And for Pete's sake, sit down Second Lieutenant before you fall down," he snapped.

Flushing, Hawke sat down, but not before the Colonel noticed the relieved look that crossed his face.

"I think I have already, sir," he responded. "I'm requesting your permission to marry Tuyen and return stateside."

Burns shifted in his chair. "I can't send you home, son," he said regretfully. "You know that."

Hawke's chin came up stubbornly. "You can sir, if I sign up for another six months of combat duty."

Burns frowned, if he'd ever seen a case of combat fatigue and burnout looking for a place to happen, it was sitting in front of him. "And why would you do that?"

Hawke frowned, not liking the feeling this man held his life as well as Tuyen's and the baby's in his hands. His gaze dropped to the muddy combat boots he wore, before meeting the other's accessing grey stare. "Look sir," he sighed. "It has always been my intention to re-up so long as my brother is still MIA. I'm a lot likelier to find him if I stay in country.

Burns scowled. _Lot likelier too, the fool'd get himself killed._

"And the girl?"

Hawke flushed. "It was my intention to marry her, sir. I just kinda drug my feet on that one."

"Uh - huh. I see," the Colonel muttered non-commitally, eyeing him.

Hawke fought the urge to squirm.

He sighed, looking down at the paperwork again. The army could use good pilots like Hawke. They needed all the help they could get and if they knew he was thinking of turning him down, they'd skewer him alive.

He was less sure about the girl though. He could buy she'd saved Hawke's life…he was also willing to bet she was the reason he'd got shot in the first place.

He knew Reynolds had had a girl at the local village. He hadn't known Hawke had. Seemed somehow out of character for him…

He grimaced, rubbing stubbled cheeks. Half his recruits were greenhorns and Hawke while all soldier, struck him as something of an idealist. "You realize a lot of these women are whoring the whole US Army just to survive?"

Hawke's gaze shot to his. "Yes, sir," he muttered in embarassment.

"You sure the kid's yours?" the Colonel asked gruffly.

"Sir. Yes, sir," Hawke replied, thankful his skin was too darkly tanned for the Colonel to see the flush he could feel rising on his neck.

Burns raked a hand through the thinning crew cut he wore and slapped his hat back on his head. Maybe a month home with family and friends would give Hawke enough strength to survive this damn war…He could only hope the wife and son would give him a reason to live long enough to come home…this obsession with finding his brother sure as hang wouldn't.

"Fine," he growled. "Plan on reporting to Tan Son Nhut airbase end of the month for stateside leave. Make sure you give an address you can be reached, so you can receive your return duty orders."

"Yes, sir," Hawke replied, his blue eyes lighting with relief. "Thank you sir."

He started to rise in anticipation of being dismissed.

Burns stopped him. "See the Chaplin on your way out, Hawke and make arrangements for your wedding tomorrow. I expect to be invited…0900 works for me."

Stunned blue eyes flared wide. "Sir, uh…yes, sir." Hawke stammered. "Right away, sir." He started to beat a hasty retreat for the door.

Burns fought the grin that tugged at his mouth. "Hey, Second Lieutenant!" he bellowed.

Hawke turned, more than a little wary this time. "Haul your butt back to the infirmary when you're done and stay there until Major Douglas releases you. That's an order. You'd look might stupid passing out at your own wedding."

String winced. "Yes, sir," he muttered.

Colonel Nicholas Burns chuckled watching him go. Maybe his wife had been right after all. _Weddings could be highly entertaining. _He snorted in amusement. "Sorry I ever doubted you, honey," he muttered, going back to the paperwork on his desk with a grin.


	6. Chapter 6

The heat boiled down, humidity thick and sticky, gluing his uniform to already clammy skin. Sweat slid beneath the pristine white bandages on his ribs making him even hotter.

Blowing out a frustrated breath Stringfellow Hawke waited, sky blue eyes narrowed on the tent in front of him. Beside him, the Chaplin - a short, slightly balding man of maybe twenty years or so his senior chattered on.

Muttering an affirmative "yeah" from time to time and shelving the urge to push past him and go hunting for Tuyen himself, Hawke hoped he'd put down his obvious distraction to typical pre-wedding day jitters.

It was anything but typical. _What the hell had he been thinking? _There was no way he was going to get this past Burns. And certainly no way he was going to get it past US authorities back home. Dom'd kill him, he thought squirming uneasily.

_But what other choice did he have? _If he didn't marry her, her butt would be out that front gate so fast it'd make his head swim.

He wasn't stupid - he knew the odds a woman and a newborn baby alone out there would face with the jungle crawling with Viet Cong and PRU troops.

No, he thought clenching his jaw; he'd just have to make it work. He owed Reynolds and more than that, he owed Tuyen. _He'd just have to figure out the details later._

_Somehow, he'd make Dom understand._

The door to the mess hall tent banged open. A slender slip of a Vietnamese girl stood there, dark hair piled high on her head and a traditional red ao dai gown reaching almost to her ankles.

Hawke swallowed, wondering idly where she'd gotten it. Reynolds was right, he thought. She **was** beautiful, probably the most beautiful thing he'd seen over here.

The door banged open again and one of the nurses stepped out, cradling Tuyen's baby against her khaki-clad shoulder, the brown fuzz on his head ruffling in the warm breeze.

This was wrong, Hawke thought, feeling the unfamiliar fear and doubt claw up at him again. This was Reynold's woman, Reynold's child - Scott should be marrying them, not him. He felt every bit the fraud, the imposter he was.

Panic-stricken dark brown eyes met his, before dropping abruptly behind soot dark lashes to his feet.

Hawke sighed, heavily. Only one problem - Reynolds was dead.

* * *

Tuyen's fingers brushed his hand, hesitant, offering comfort. Hawke felt them, appreciated the offered comfort, even as he sensed the hurt in Cait's blue-green gaze as her eyes lit on their hands.

Firmly, he tugged his fingers free of Tuyen's, doing his best to ignore the confused hurt in her face as he reached for Caitlin.

Long fingers wrapped around her elbow drawing her close, his forehead nearly touching hers. "You know I love you, Cait," he rasped, his blue eyes seeking hers.

Sun-kissed lashes fluttered across tear-filled eyes as she pulled away from him and into Saint John's brotherly embrace. "I don't know what to think, Hawke," she whispered. "But I do know, you should have told me."

Muscle leaping in his jaw, String met his brother's worried hazel gaze with his own. _Yeah, he kinda got that._

* * *

9:13 am, December 2, 1969

A strong hand landed heavily on his shoulder. Startled, Stringfellow Hawke spun, only to be greeted by Colonel Burns' wry amusement. "Well, if I'd had any doubt you meant it, Hawke," he chuckled, "It'd be gone now. You have that suitable deer in the headlights look." Still chuckling, he clapped him on the back as he headed Tuyen's way, offering her his arm.

"Sir?" Hawke managed a strangled rasp.

Burns swung, eyeing him soberly. "Yes, son?"

For a moment, String contemplated backing out. Burns was a fair man, maybe he'd listen…

Stormy blue eyes lit on Tuyen's downcast head, the baby starting to fuss behind her. Her chin raised as if sensing his indecision…

In the distance he could hear rifle fire. Scowling, he turned towards it. _Maybe he'd never make it home, maybe neither would Sinj, but here was a chance to do something worthwhile, a chance for Tuyen and Scott's son to live in freedom._

"Hawke?"

He swallowed. "Nothing, sir."

The Colonel gave him a brief nod, turning back to the Vietnamese girl and offering her his arm. "Let's get this wedding underway, people!" he ordered gruffly.

Bending his knees, nineteen year-old Stringfellow Hawke knelt beside Tuyen in front of the military Chaplin. _Not exactly how he'd pictured it somehow, he thought._

A lone tear trickled down Tuyen's cheek. _Not exactly how she'd probably pictured it either, he reminded himself._

Strong, tan fingers reached out and caught hers, squeezing gently as her eyes raised to meet his. His sapphire blue gaze crinkled around the edges as he met hers. "It'll be okay," he promised, tightening his grip on hers, shooting her a quick grin.

She nodded, not speaking.

The Chaplin watched all this with a benevolent eye waiting. "Ready?' he asked at last.

Hawke shifted, his fingers still firmly wrapped around Tuyen's. "Yeah."

The man nodded, raising his head to look at the ragged, motley group of fatigue-clad soldiers and a handful of nurses. "Then let's begin."

He opened a battered, brown Bible, his eyes meeting Hawke's. "Repeat after me…"

"I, Stringfellow Hawke, take you Tuyen Trung to be my lawfully wedded wife. Before these witnesses I vow to love you and care for you as long as we both shall live. I take you with all your faults and your strengths as I offer myself to you with my faults and strengths. I will help you when you need help, and I will turn to you when I need help; from this day forward until death do us part."


	7. Chapter 7

Hawke peeled off a wad of bills from the roll he held and handed it to the clerk, trying not to notice the avaricious way he counted the money, before dropping a slim band of gold into his outstretched hand. Not much for two weeks combat pay, he thought grimly before turning to Tuyen.

Beside him, she eyed the scarred jewelry and pawn shop at Tan Son Nhut with wide eyes.

"Sorry, it's not more," he said, flashing her an abashed grin.

Tuyen glanced up at him with confusion in her eyes. "Why?"

Okay, maybe it mattered more to him than to her, Hawke thought, raking a frustrated hand through his dark fringe. He was wise enough to know though, the ring would help at least keep some of the whispers at bay. Bad enough the marriage would be viewed as a mixed one by some of the bigots at home; he could do without the sly comments about the child being a bastard.

Yeah, maybe technically he was, but it wasn't for lack of trying on Scott's part or his.

Hawke reached down and snagged her fingers, carefully sliding the plain gold band over her third knuckle. "It says you are mine," he rasped hoarsely. "My wife, vợ của tôi."

Thoughtfully, she eyed the ring. "I thought wedding did that," she remarked softly in her lilting English.

His fingers tightened around hers. Yeah, maybe it did, but that'd be cold comfort with Scott dead and him halfway around the world, getting shot at.

"Bit more complicated than that," he muttered dryly.

Questioning brown eyes met his. "So, tell," she said frowning at him.

Hawke cast an uneasy look at the clerk who was obviously listening to every word of their conversation. "Let's talk outside," he muttered, grasping her elbow and steering her out the door.  
The shop door jingled shut behind them, and String cast an anxious glance over his shoulder before drawing her near. "You do understand, I can't stay with you, Tuyen?" he began.

She nodded solemnly. "Orders," she murmured.

"Yeah," String muttered. _Orders_ - he couldn't even begin to explain the rest. Finding Saint John was his mess, not hers. He sighed, trying to decide how to continue. Blunt honesty seemed the best approach. Goodness knew, there'd been little enough of that so far.

"Look," he said. "For you to stay in the States, the military has to believe you're my wife."

She nodded. "Am your wife."

"Yeah, well," Hawke rubbed his chin. "Sorta. They thought the baby was mine, too."

She scowled. "Baby Scott's, Tuyen's."

The shopkeeper stepped out, eyeing them curiously.

Spotting him, Hawke snatched her arm to his, dragging her along in his wake. "No!" he rasped in a harsh whisper. "You can't tell anyone that!"

Hurt showed clearly in her face. "But is…"

He huffed a frustrated sigh. "Yeah, I know. But Tuyen, my C.O. finds that out and we're dead meat. They'll haul you and the baby back here so fast your head will spin - not to mention have me up on charges. I can kiss my wings goodbye."

Worry bloomed in her eyes. "Hawke get trouble 'cause he marry Tuyen?"

String scowled. "Forget that Tuyen," he growled impatiently. "The point is, we get caught, they'll toss you and that baby back in that damn jungle!"

Catching her wide-eyed stare, his exasperated tone softened. "Look, I don't want that for you, Tuyen. Scott wouldn't want that for you. At least in the States you'll be safe. Dom'll see to that. _Assuming he doesn't rip my head off before I can explain, he thought grimly._

Fine, dark brows drew together thoughtfully. "Dom?" she questioned.

"Yeah, Dom," String ground out. "My …." he trailed off. _How exactly did one explain his relationship with Dom? - his father, but not exactly; friend - but a whole lot more_. Dom had got a lot of flak raising him and Saint John, and it seemed he was about to get a whole lot more… "Dominic Santini," he returned. "He's a friend, family, he raised me."

Tuyen gave him the barest hint of a smile. Family, _gia dinh_, she understood. Hers had been everything to her, until suddenly one day they were gone…

Scott had been family, too, she thought with a pang of sorrow. All too well she understood the concept of loss.

Hawke might be her family now, but that did not mean Scott's was not. She couldn't let that go.

Dark brown eyes watched Hawke under feathery raven's wing lashes. Hawke knew loss too, she thought, taking in the unhappy stormy blue eyes and the downward twist to the fine lips.

She had a feeling, this Dominic - here she rolled the unfamiliar name around on her tongue - had known his fair share of it as well. To have raised Hawke, he would have had to, he could not have escaped it.

Still, if he had raised him, he had to be a good man, a strong man. He would understand the concept of family; he would understand this son of his, even if Hawke feared he would not.

"No," she shook her head determinedly. "I must go Scott's family. They know about me, they know the baby. We belong there."

Hawke stared at her aghast. "You're kidding, right?" he growled, forgetting for an instant she'd have no concept of what kidding was. "The army'll pin both our hides to the wall when they find out!"

She shook her head soberly. "No, Hawke," she replied. "They will want; he is their grandson."

Hawke stared. The way she said it left no room for doubt. He shifted awkwardly, watching her.

"Tuyen, they raise a fuss, this could all come down around us," he warned. "At least with Dom, you'll be safe. We'll work something out about the rest later," he promised. Reality pressed in cold around his heart, "And if something were to happen to me, you'd at least get my benefits."

_It wasn't much maybe, but it wasn't like he had anyone else to leave behind. Dom wouldn't need it and she sure wouldn't be getting Scott's the way things stood. It was too late for that._

Implacable dark eyes met his, laced with a hint of sympathy. "No, Hawke."

He sighed. "You're sure?"

She nodded.

* * *

Struggling to her feet, Jo swiped a lank strand of blonde hair out of her face. The violet eyes were shadowed, haunted. And Saint John wondered why she didn't want more children, she thought humorlessly…

Thinking of Bella, her soul ached for the one they'd lost, the one she'd cost them. How did one ever get past that? How could he forgive her, when she couldn't forgive herself? How could she trust herself again?

She sighed, knowing she couldn't.

* * *

Pain glittered in blue-green eyes as Caitlin stared at String, caught somewhere between sympathy and wanting to wring his neck. She knew with her head he'd done the right thing, maybe not the most overboard thing, but the only thing he could do under the circumstances. He could've no more left Tuyen, than cut off his own arm.

It was why she loved him; it was also a pretty good reason to kill him…

She gave an irritated sigh.

Saint John shot her an uneasy look, relieved his relationship with Jo wasn't this complicated.

* * *

January 22, 1970 - Denver International Airport  
Denver, Colorado

"You sure you'll be okay?" Hawke asked Tuyen, his storm-colored eyes raking over her worriedly. "It's not too late for you to change your mind and come back with me and let me introduce you to Dom."

The dark brown eyes raised and met his, before glancing over at a middle-aged blonde couple cradling a baby with decidedly dark brown fuzz between them. "Scott's parents might feel differently about that," she murmured huskily.

Watching them, Hawke grinned. "Yeah, I think you may be right."

She smiled, albeit a bit sadly. "I wish Scott could see," she whispered, with sorrow in her voice.

Hawke wrapped his arm around her in a comforting hug. "Me too," he rasped.

She turned back to him, searching his face. "So, what will you do, Hawke?"

He shrugged diffidently. "Go back. Hunt for Saint John." His fingers caught hers. "Wait for letter from my wife."

Her expression was serious as she met his. "Watch your back, Hawke."

He gave her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You'll write?" he asked, searching her face.

She nodded.

Hawke took a step back, rifling through his duffel, finally digging out an envelope which he handed to her.

Her fingers closed around it, taking it, even as her eyes questioned him.

He shrugged, his expression wry as he looked at Scott's parents and then her. "Take it," he murmured. "You probably won't need it. But take it, just in case you need to give it to Dom."

She didn't have to ask what just in case meant. _Just in case it didn't work out, just in case he didn't make it back…just in case she had to tell Dom he had a wife and his son wasn't around to do it._

Her face crumpled, and then she was flinging herself across the feet that separated them, sobbing.

Staggering under her sudden weight, Hawke caught her, the blue eyes bemused. "Shh-h," he whispered. "It'll be okay."

Her hiccupping sobs got harder.

For a paper marriage, this was suddenly feeling all too real…

"One year and you'll have your freedom," he promised.

Still crying, she nodded.

Scott's parents were now watching them curiously, he realized and he knew it was time to go. He hugged her roughly, kissing the top of her head as he did so. "Take care, Tuyen," he whispered, loosing her and reaching for the dropped duffel bag.

Her arms sliding free of his waist, she stepped back, her brown eyes were still tear-filled. "Thank you, Hawke. For everything."

He nodded, serious blue eyes meeting hers as he swung the duffel over his shoulder and turned to go.


	8. Chapter 8

July 3rd, 1970

"Mail call!" the yell rang out loud and clear across the camp. Hawke shifted restlessly on his bunk, listening to the chop-chop of Huey blades in the distance. If he hadn't had duty in a couple hours, he'd have been sorely tempted to go and raise a beer to Sinj. Hang, he was still sorely tempted - one year tomorrow and still no word.

A sharp rap at the door and his bunkmate came in sweaty and flushed, box in hand. He cocked an eyebrow at him inquisitively - he was willing to bet that box had Shep's mom's homemade oatmeal raisin cookies in it.

"Oh, no," his friend laughed, catching his look. "These are mine. You got your own mail." He tossed a couple envelopes Hawke's way and rifled for a pocket knife to open the box.

Hawke reached down and handed him his, getting a grunted thanks in return. He ignored it, shoving the used knife back in his pants pocket as he picked up the two envelopes off the floor beside his bunk.

Dom, he thought, recognizing the bold scrawl on the first. His gut clenched, knowing it was the older man's attempt at consoling him about Saint John going missing. However well-intentioned, he didn't think he could take it right now. He tossed it on his cot, reaching for the other one.

Delicate, feminine writing sprawled across the front. Curious, he sliced it open, barely catching the photo that slid out, before it hit the floor.

"So, who's it from?" Shep mumbled around a mouthful of cookie, offering String one.

He shook his head as he read, knowing never in a million years could he explain to his bunkmate about Tuyen and the child. It seemed Phuong was crawling these days, and managing to pull down every tablecloth in the house. the_'You'd never believe it Hawke, she wrote. He bit the Reynold's dog _ _other day. I was soo-oo embarrassed…'_ A grin tugged at his mouth, picturing it. _She would've been, too…_

"Just a girl I used to know," he retorted, tucking the picture of a smiling Tuyen and a laughing, chubby-cheeked blue-eyed baby boy in her arms into his pocket.

_No matter how it turned out, he wasn't sorry about that…_

Shep shrugged, reaching for another cookie and Hawke's glance slid his way. "Hey, where's mine?" he demanded mock indignantly, as he snagged the last of the cookies, his earlier melancholy forgotten for the moment.

* * *

Saint John stared at his brother in a mixture of worry and stunned disbelief._ Okay, yeah, he could understand String's reasoning, could sympathize with it - maybe even agree there had been no other way…here the hazel eyes caught the shattered expression on Caitlin's face, but surely he hadn't left it that way? Yeah, String was sloppy when it came to paperwork, but even he couldn't be that boneheaded surely, he thought._

"So, what happened to the divorce?" Saint John demanded, watching Cait pace away, every freckle on her face standing out in sharp relief against waxen skin.

Reluctantly, String turned back to his brother, his attention still clearly on Caitlin. Arms wrapped around herself as if she had a permanent chill, she walked out of the hanger not looking back.

"I signed the papers," he whispered, his voice dazed, confused. "I swear I did, Sinj. I promise."

* * *

March 2nd, 1971

"Mail call, First Lieutenant!" Staff Sergeant Lewis bellowed, tossing what was left of the stack he held in Stringfellow Hawke's direction.

Briefly, Hawke wondered if it was worth reminding the Staff Sergeant he outranked him these days, last he checked. Nah, he thought. Lewis made no bones about the fact he was shipping out and going home in three days. His tour was done, so far as he was concerned.

Hawke only wished his was. Ruefully, he bent to pick up the scattered envelopes at his feet - a letter from Dom, a note to his bunkmate and a rather formal looking manila envelope, evidently addressed to him.

Raising a surprised eyebrow, Hawke tore it open with a scraped and bruised finger.

Official looking documents slid out, spilling into his hand. Divorce papers, he thought, blue eyes widening in startled hurt. Skimming them, the same sapphire blue eyes narrowed. Tuyen's delicate script flowed across the page, the lines for his signature x'ed and highlighted.

Unreasoning sorrow welled up in him. She'd kept to the terms they'd decided - fourteen months - long enough for her to get her citizenship without question and long enough for his C.O. to buy that a wet behind the ears, green soldier too young to know any better, had thrown in the towel.

Hawke sighed, his thumb tracing the fine lines of her signature, a signature he'd come to know well over the past year. Maybe the marriage hadn't been real, but the friendship had been. He'd miss her and the boy. _He was walking now, he thought ruefully._

It'd been something worthwhile, something worth fighting for in this hellhole that had taken his brother from him. There had been times, it'd been one of the few things that'd kept him going. The fact that Tuyen and her son would grow up in freedom and safety, and that he'd had something to do with that. That and the fact Dom was waiting for him to come home.

Home seemed a long ways away these days. He was no closer to finding Saint John than he was a year ago, and he knew it.

And so, he wasn't going home. He couldn't. He'd already decided when the time came, if Saint John hadn't been found, he'd be staying.

_At least, flying helicopters was safer - most days, he thought wryly, well aware he'd nearly bought it yesterday._

"Time to call it a day," he rasped regretfully, pulling the creased picture of Tuyen and Phuong out of his pocket for one last glance. His thumb rubbed across the smudged picture.

"Fly angel," he whispered, against the lump in his throat. "Go find those wings of yours."

His bold scrawl sprawled across the page, in all the highlighted areas. Folding the papers back up, he stuffed them back into the manila envelope, scratching out his address and replacing it with the lawyer's, before going in search of the recalcitrant Staff Sergeant Lewis.

* * *

Staff Sergeant Michael Lewis watched as the last duffel bag of outgoing mail was heaved up into the Huey before it departed. Time to go home, he thought with a grin, shifting the heavy pack on his own shoulder. Not like he'd miss this place, he thought, pale grey eyes sliding across the dilapidated string of buildings one last time.

The whine of rotors filled the air, downwash beating at him as he reached for the handhold on the side of the chopper.

"Lewis!" the irritated growl, rasped on his ears. "Staff Sergeant!" the voice, just a hair below a yell grated on his nerves. "Wait!"

Turning, he spotted Stringfellow Hawke headed his way at a lope. Blasted boy scout, he thought, grimacing in vague disgust, eyeing him as he ducked the Huey's rotors. _What'd he want?_

Hawke stumbled to a halt beside him, breathless.

"Yeah?" Lewis tossed back insolently.

Blue eyes narrowed over blazing ice, as Hawke faced him down biting back a surge of irritation. "You are still in country, Lewis," he reminded him coldly.

_Yeah, he was, Lewis acknowledged resentfully. Last thing he needed was the boy scout pulling his ticket…_

"Yes sir," he grumbled, meeting the other's eyes.

Hawke handed him the envelope. _The implied order was clear._ "This too, Staff Sergeant. See that it gets mailed."

Thick fingers took the outstretched envelope, tucking it into his pocket. He nodded, reaching for the handhold.

Squinting against the windborne sand, Hawke watched him go, stepping back with the instinctive care of a man who'd spent his entire life around 'choppers. "Good luck, Lewis," he muttered dryly, watching him go. "Knowing you, you'll need it."

* * *

Well and truly sloshed, a short, squat man staggered out of the darkened bar just outside of Tan Son Nhut airbase. _Whatever could be said about the gooks they played a good card game;_ he smirked, fingering the thick wad of bills he shoved into his pocket.

Blearily, he tried to remember his way back to the barracks. He sniggered drunkenly. _Who cared as long as he made that flight home tomorrow?_

Unfortunately, he never heard the soft footfall behind him as the knife slashed down.

* * *

Swallowing hard, the younger MP dropped the sheet back over the man's face. The startled, staring grey eyes weren't something he figured he'd forget for a long time.

"Hurry up, Johnson!" his partner snapped. Easily his senior by at least half a decade, he cast a jaundiced eye over the proceedings.

Luckless jerk, he thought wearily. All you had to do was stay out of trouble one more day and you'd 've been headed home.

Instead he'd be headed to the morgue and the stack of cold case files piled on his desk.

_Where the heck was Johnson anyway?_

The body - Staff Sergeant Michael Lewis - he corrected himself, was being loaded into the truck now.

Grimacing, he searched for his partner amongst the crowd. Newbie, he thought with a sigh, watching Johnson struggle to gather up the victim's scattered personal effects without retching. _Wouldn't be good for anything else all day…_

"Today, Johnson!" he snarled.

Jumping, the other man flinched, reaching for a blood-soaked manila envelope. "What about this, sir?" he asked, holding it up in the air.

McKinney fought the urge to roll his eyes. _What was he - the kid's babysitter? _"Throw it in the box, Johnson, along with everything else, son. You think maybe the Staff Sergeant is going to need it on the flight home?


	9. Chapter 9

Michael sat the glass down with a solid thunk on the desk, sliding the picture back into the bottom of the drawer. Seemed the job came with more than it's fair share of ghosts these days. Too many.

First Sonya, then Alex, he thought thinking regretfully of the redhead in the picture he'd just slid away. Gabrielle for Hawke, so nearly Marella and Caitlin over the years, and now Jade for Seb.

Wearily, he wondered if Seb would ever be the same again.

_Were any of them really?_

Only recently had Hawke been returned to flight status. Monique Branscomb had come to see him this morning to inform him.

He'd hoped to give him some down time. Goodness knows, he could probably use it. He knew things had been rough with Airwolf's crew as of late…

…but once again, fate had a way of stepping in, he thought in frustration, worriedly fingering the file sat in front of him.

Long slender fingers rubbed the bridge of his nose where the beginning of a headache had started. Grimacing, he reached for the phone and Santini Air.

* * *

"Caitlin, wait!" Hawke yelled, shoving to his feet. Whatever the deal was with Tuyen, surely Cait had to know he'd meant it when he'd said those words to her. _'Course, he'd meant them too when he'd said them to Tuyen._

Behind him, he could hear the jangling ring of the phone and Saint John's husky murmur as he picked up.

Tuyen's hand grasped his arm and he tried to shake it off, desperate suddenly with the need to explain, to make things right again.

Her grip on his arm only tightened. "No, Hawke," she murmured. "Give her time." The melodious tones washed over him, calming him not in the least.

He shook loose with determination. "No, you don't understand…" he snarled.

Obsidian dark eyes met his sorrowfully. "Yes, Hawke, I do. It was quite a surprise for me, too."

Torn, he glanced back and forth between Tuyen and Caitlin heading out the door. Maybe he was better off waiting 'til she calmed down?

_What if she didn't calm down? that nasty little voice in his head taunted him. What if she just walked out the doorway and kept walking?_

_Memories of a conversation in front of the cabin, so many years ago, replayed themselves in his head. "…I'm just going to get on a plane and keep going 'til the money runs out, and then I'm gonna walk…and I'm never gonna stop…"_

_Surely, she wouldn't do it though…_

He couldn't take the chance…

And then Saint John's hand was on his arm. "String, wait!"

"It can't!" he snapped, trying to sidestep his brother.

His brother's grip on his arm only tightened. "It'll have to," he said, shoving the phone at him. "It's Michael."

He snatched it from him. "Hawke here," he snarled, watching Cait head out of the hanger - he just hoped it wasn't out of his life.

* * *

The news that Mike Rivers was dead brought everything to a screeching standstill.

"What do you mean he's presumed dead?" Hawke demanded, not caring Tuyen was standing there next to him, able to hear every word.

"He was testing a new surveillance aircraft for the Airforce," Archangel began. "It was shot down."

"Shot down? Where? How?" Hawke muttered, feeling a sense of cold, unreality seep through him as he flopped down onto the desk beside him.

"Near the Bay of Pigs," Archangel replied.

Dumbfounded, String stared at his brother. "Wanna tell me what he was doing in Cuba?" he ground out.

Archangel sighed. "That's need to know Hawke, even I don't have all the details."

"I'm willing to bet you know a lot more than that, Michael," he snarled.

"Maybe so," Archangel agreed, "but that's all I can tell you, Hawke. I'm sorry."

"Not half as sorry as I am," String muttered. He sighed, raking a frustrated hand through his hair. "Fine, Michael," he bit out. "What do you want us to do?"

Archangel sighed. "We need you to either go in and get the plane out, or destroy it."

String fought the urge to make some sarcastic remark like - _gee is that all? _"How soon?" he clipped.

"As soon as you can get Airwolf in the air. There's a series of mid-air refueling points being lined up now."

"Yeah," Hawke sighed, watching Caitlin step warily back into the hanger. "You told Sarah yet, Michael?"

"No."

"Then find out for sure before you tell her," String growled. "She deserves better than that."

"I'm working on it, Hawke," the spy replied tersely.

"I sure as hang would hope so," String replied, thinking of all the years he'd wondered about his brother.

Hand hovering over the disconnect, String watched Tuyen and Saint John try and coerce Cait back into the hanger.

_Michael owed him a favor…_

_Maybe it was time to collect…_

He shifted uneasily. Favors from the Firm might be expensive in his experience, but this was one he couldn't afford not to collect.

"Marella still there…?" he asked, suddenly quiet.

"Yes, why?"

"Put her on the phone, Michael. We need to talk."

* * *

Marella's promises still ringing in his ears, Hawke set down the phone. With Roper unavailable and Seb still mourning Jade's death, it left the Lady's crew down to three - himself, Saint John and Cait.

Great, he thought, taking in the wounded look Cait shot him. Like the timing couldn't have been worse. String raked a frustrated hand down his face - and he still had no idea why Tuyen was here.

_It would have to wait, he realized with a grimace. If there was** any**__ hope Mike was still alive, they were it and irregardless, Archangel was right - they couldn't leave a top secret spy plane in the hands of the Cubans._

_He just hoped his marriage could survive it._

* * *

"Delta-niner, delta-niner this is Eye in the Sky, do you read? Delta-niner, do you copy?" Disgusted, First Lt. Jack Richardson flipped the radio switch, eyeing his pilot worriedly. "Nothing, sir," he muttered.

Boyishly handsome, Mike Rivers bit back a curse as he pulled back on the yoke, his usually ebullient blue eyes anything but at this moment. He'd been in enough tough spots over the years to know he was in one of the worst he'd ever been in right now.

"Try again, Richardson!" Mike clipped, rolling the plane hard left, trying to avoid 50mm ground canon fire.

Scrambling fingers hit the radio switch, as twenty-eight year old Richardson fought the seat harness alternately cursing and blessing that which held him in place as blonde-haired Rivers sent the plane hurtling across the sky. Dipping out of an aileron roll, the plane dodged another torrent of ground fire. _Damn, he was glad it was Rivers flying this bird and not him._

Brown eyes widening in horror at the radar screen, Richardson realized their luck was about to run out. "Incoming!" he rasped, desperately bracing himself against the instruments as Rivers barrel-rolled the plane again.

Stomach-clenching, he'd just about decided they'd made it, when he heard the thud of 50mm shells tearing through the plane's right wing and starboard engine.

Blood spattered across Mike's hand as the windscreen spider webbed. Hauling back on the yoke, he fought to maintain altitude as he cast a worried glance over at his co-pilot. The plane bucked and foundered beneath his hands.

"Jack!" he snapped. "Come on, talk to me! How bad is it?"

No answer said it was bad, Mike realized looking at the shell-shocked look on the younger man's face as he fought for breath.

"Ah, hell," the blonde-haired pilot muttered, having seen enough mortal wounds to know the kid was bleeding out before his eyes. _Not a thing he could do about it either._

Engines screaming, straining to pick up the damaged engine's load, Rivers pointed the plane to the sky and prayed. Desperate fingers slammed the cockpit radio back to life. _Where was his crew anyway? _"Samuels! Pierson!" he yelled. "Somebody, get you butt up here, now! I need you!"

Booted feet scrambled for the cockpit, Richardson's gurgling breath filling Mike's ears. "Hold on, Jack," he panted, rolling the plane to avoid ground fire and hearing the sickening thud of flesh into metal cockpit walls.

"Not gonna …make it," Richardson wheezed beside him, his eyes clouding with pain. Muscles screaming, Mike hauled back on the controls one-handed, reaching over towards Richardson desperation knotting his grip on the other man's arm. "Hang in there, Jack" he rasped. Fingers clenched on his sleeve as he shook the other man hard. "Don't you quit on me, Richardson. Do you hear me? That's an order!"

Pain-hazed brown eyes caught determined blue. "Trying…sir," the younger man gasped, fighting for air.

Mike nodded, reluctantly forcing his attention back to the struggling plane.

Staggering, Pierson stumbled in, taking one look at Richardson and grabbing for the first-aid kit. Samuels was a half-step behind him, staggering into the cockpit, worry darkening his already dusky features as he shot an anxious glance at his pilot and Richardson. "You okay, sir?" he demanded.

Fighting exhaustion, his own breathing labored Rivers struggled to keep the plane in the air. Twenty minutes more and they'd be home free - assuming he could keep her up that long. Jet fuel was streaming now from the damaged engine.

He reached over and flipped the fuel line switch, blood running down his arm. There was no doubt they were going down.


	10. Chapter 10

Hawke's lean stride crossing the hanger floor, he reached for Caitlin's arm, ignoring the confused and bewildered looks Saint John and Tuyen shot him. "We've got to talk, Cait," he rasped, grasping her elbow and guiding her out the door.

Cait shook him off, blue-green eyes blazing. "Funny, I thought we were, String!" she snapped. "A little late maybe, but…" She hauled in a shuddering breath at the look of pain that crossed his face before his jaw tightened. "Why do you always do these things to me, Stringfellow Hawke?" she wailed, allowing him to head her out the door.

Hawke sighed, his dark blue eyes meeting hers. "Would it help if I said I was sorry?" he rasped hoarsely, his own eyes questioning on her face.

Caitlin fought to keep her anger. Seemed it was the only thing holding her together. "Maybe," she whispered, angry at herself, angry at the lump in her throat. "I don't know, Hawke." She hugged her arms around herself as if by doing so, she could ward off the pain trying to rip her apart. She turned her head, blinking unseeingly in the bright sunlight.

String reached for her hesitantly, the pad of his thumb brushing away a tear on her cheek. "I am sorry, Cait," he whispered contritely.

She leaned into his touch unthinkingly for a moment, before pulling away. She stepped back, her gaze hitting the tarmac at her feet.

"You know, it's not like I don't think you had a life before me," she murmured, her voice choked with tears. Her head came up defiantly, the wind whipping reddish strands wildly in the sharp breeze. "I realize you did," the blue-green eyes were filled with tears. "But don't you think you should've mentioned her, Hawke?" she demanded looking over at where Tuyen and Saint John stood beside the hanger.

Hawke threw an unhappy glance over at Tuyen where she stood, long dark hair whipping in the breeze, his brother beside her.

She didn't look any happier than Cait, he realized.

He shrugged uneasily, feeling the leather bomber jacket slide on his shoulders. "I was nineteen, Cait. It was the only thing I could think of." He could feel the words rushing out of his lungs, more than a little desperate. "I owed Scott, I owed her. I couldn't leave her and Phuong to die." An icy fear clenched his stomach. "Surely, you can see that. You can understand…"

The red-head smiled sadly. "Yeah, Hawke, I can. It's one of the reasons I love you. You and that blasted hero complex of yours." She looked away, blinking hard, her lips trembling before she met his gaze again. "But you should've trusted me, String. You should've told me." Hurt clogged her voice.

At a loss of words, and caught between her pain and Tuyen's, String had to admit she was right. He should have - even if the marriage was on paper only and should've been over long before he'd ever even met Cait. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "You're right. I should've told you. But I meant it when I said those vows to you, Cait. I love you and whether the law says we're married or not, that hasn't changed."

She nodded, not meeting his eyes. Hawke might love her, but evidently they were more than a little lacking in the trust department. She wasn't sure how much more she could handle of this. "So, what'd Michael want?" she asked wearily, guessing correctly the ill-timed call had been the spy. Firm business suddenly seemed the safest ground between them.

Hawke rubbed his chin uneasily, his blue eyes wary. "Mike's plane has gone down."

"What?!!" Cait gasped, her face stricken. "When? How? Does Sarah know?"

Hawke shook his head. "He was doing reconnaissance of some sort for the government over Cuba. They shot the plane down."

Pain flashed across Caitlin's pale freckled features. "But he's okay?" she whispered watching String's face.

He sighed, looking away. "Archangel thinks he's dead, Cait. He wants Saint John and I to go in and either get the plane out or destroy it."

Cait's lashes fluttered shut, thinking of their friend. It seemed impossible Mike could be gone. "You're sure?" she whispered.

"No," String rasped, his voice harsh. "That's why I'm going in. If there's a chance…"

Caitlin's hand grabbed his arm. "Then I'm going in too, Hawke. He's my friend as well."

A crash from the hanger had them both whirling in surprise and sprinting towards it, String's longer stride outdistancing Cait's. Rushing in, they found it empty except for a rather confused looking Tuyen and a box of metal tools scattered all over the floor.

"What happened?" String demanded, realizing instantly Saint John was nowhere in sight.

Tuyen threw up her hands helplessly, obviously at a loss. "A little girl - braids like her," she said spotting Cait's hair.

" 'Melia?" Caitlin demanded, fear for her daughter crowding out everything. "What happened? Where is she?"

Hawke's expression was a little more taciturn, knowing if he got Tuyen flustered, he might never find out. "Where'd she go, Tuyen?" he murmured.

The Vietnamese woman turned worried chocolate brown eyes on him. "She was crying when she ran in, Hawke, something about a Jo? Your brother …dropped everything," her hands spread wide, gesturing to the forgotten tools. "Ran out…"

String threw a worried glance Caitlin's way. They both knew Jo hadn't felt well the past several days, but she'd insisted she could get the kids from school today when Cait had mentioned String's doctor appointment with Monique Branscomb.

Scrambling, they both ran out the door. "Sinj! Sinj, where are you?!!" Hawke bellowed. Dashing out the door, he slammed to a halt, spotting Saint John's form bent over a prone Jo. Blood stained the concrete beneath them. A white-faced Nicky held his sobbing sister beside them.

String grabbed for Caitlin's arm, shoving her back inside. "Call an ambulance, Cait," he ordered. "Now!"

* * *

The ride to the hospital was silent, fraught with fear and worry on every side. Saint John had gone with Jo in the ambulance; Hawke, Cait, Tuyen and the kids following behind. No mention was made of the mission for Michael, though impatience and unease were beating raven dark wings inside String's head. He was all too aware time was running out for Mike - if indeed he was still alive, and yet, String needed either Saint John or Cait to go in with him.

And what to do about Tuyen and the kids? 'Melia's report of what had happened with Jo was garbled at best.

It was a lot of blood for a simple head wound from a fall - **if** she'd fainted. Worry darkened Hawke's brow as unconsciously his hands tightened on the steering wheel. Nicky's mention of a glimpse of a shadowy figure heading around the edge of the hanger before hearing Amelia scream, had him more than a little worried.

_If someone had been there, why hadn't they come to check? Wouldn't the normal inclination to have been to help? Unless of course, they'd had something to do with it._

* * *

The ground rushing up to meet him with stomach-clenching certainty, Mike rivers pulled back on the plane yoke as if there was no tomorrow. Of course, if he didn't do something fast, he thought humorlessly, there wouldn't be. "Come on, baby, come on," he muttered, feeling the strain on his arms as he hauled back on the controls for all he was worth.

Sweat was running down his back, despite the icy chill of the pressurized cockpit, the plane wallowing beneath his hands. Beside him, he could hear the life and death struggle as Pierson fought to save Richardson. Richardson's labored breathing was loud in his headset, dragging at his attention, but he didn't dare look at the other man. It'd take a miracle for any of them to walk away from this one, he thought, catching sight of a Mig on the radar screen closing fast.

No way to outrun them - only ditch the plane and hope for the best…

"Beckett!" he yelled. "Start dumping that data! Whatever happens, they can't find out we know what we do." Bad enough they'd get the plane - he could do without the rest of them being prosecuted for espionage - at least the plane was probably going to be in itty bitty pieces, he thought with a grimace. Gonna take Castro's guys a while to put the puzzle back together - maybe never, if he had anything to do with it, a sudden wild thought occurring to him. _She might not howl like a wolf, but he'd be willing to bet she'd burn like she'd been bit by one._

A wicked smile teased the corner of River's lips, his usually twinkling eyes hard. "Hang on guys," he muttered, "and strap yourself in. This is gonna get rough."

Dragging the nose up with every bit of his strength and slamming the landing gear down, Mike prepped to land the plane belly first.

"Samuels, get me the flare guns! When this thing lands, be prepared to blow it to kingdom come."

"Sir?!" the airman rasped, sputtering.

Rivers threw him a quick glance, Richardson's gurgling breaths loud in his ears. "You heard me," he snapped. "Assuming I get this thing down, there's no way I'm handing it over to Fidel. Get everybody off, and blow her sky high."

"You're going to blow up a twenty-five million dollar spy plane?" Samuels gaped.

Rivers clenched his teeth, sensing the roll of the plane in his arms. Wavering, she wallowed with all the grace of a wounded whale. He grimaced, feeling the blood trickling down his arm, telling him she wasn't the only thing worse for wear. "You planning on giving a twenty-five million dollar spy plane to the Cubans?" he demanded.

Samuels shook his head, hazel eyes wild and dove for the back.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hawke. We really don't have any news to give you on your wife's condition," the young, harried-looking blonde nurse murmured. She cast Saint John a sympathetic glance. "I'm sure the doctor will tell you just as soon as he knows."

Saint John huffed in frustration, spinning on his heel and raking an exasperated hand through his hair. _What he really wanted to do was slam his fist through the wall. What was wrong with Jo? Was it as simple as a fainting spell, a bad fall? Surely, she'd have awakened by now…"_

Pacing his own section of hallway, String eyed his brother and Caitlin. Worried in his own right for Jo, he couldn't shake the gut-wrenching feeling Mike was running out of time. He knew if it was Cait in that bed, it'd rip his guts out to leave her, but he couldn't leave Mike or the plane either…

He spun, decision made, knowing he had to go…

…and nearly fell over Cait in the process.

Anguished blue-green eyes met his. "Go ahead, go," she whispered. "Take him with you," she said, nodding at Saint John. "Before they throw us all out of here."

String searched her eyes uneasily. "I'm sorry, Cait," he whispered hoarsely. "I know the timing sucks."

She gave him a weak half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "When doesn't it," she murmured, looking at Saint John slumped in the corner, his wide shoulders bowed in defeat. "Take him with you, String. I'll stay with Jo."

Hawke nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. "And Tuyen?" he rasped, wondering where this left them.

Caitlin cast a quick glance at the Vietnamese woman seated beside Amelia, gently stroking her back as she spoke to her quietly. Jealousy ate at her, pain clenching tightly around her heart. "We'll work something out," she muttered, trying hard not to taste the bitter flavor of betrayal in her mouth as she said the words. She refused to look at him.


	11. Chapter 11

_The roar of the ocean sounded loud in her ears, the sky overhead grey and overcast. Wind whipped blonde hair around Jo Santini Hawke's shoulders._

_In front of her lay a small white casket, flowers mounded around it. Caitlin and String stood off to the side, tears freely running down her face, String as implacable as always, except for the muscle ticking in his lean jaw and the torture-filled blue eyes._

_He was easy to read, she thought with a hiccupping sob. In agony and it was her fault, she thought guiltily. Hers and hers alone._

_Still, it was much easier to take than Saint John's pain - so raw and bloody it took her breath away. He hadn't been home in two days, 'til String and Mike had drug him home yesterday between them, more than a little drunk._

_Half out of her mind with fear and pain, Jo had launched on them, her tone shrill, hysterical and completely out of control._

_Dropping Sinj on the sofa, String had turned on her then, his eyes dangerous and more than a little tipsy himself. He'd spun snarling and told her to shut up. She'd really thought he was going to hit her for one long moment when he'd faced her down, chest heaving and blue eyes narrowed, hands clenched._

_Instead, he'd turned and rushed out of the apartment, the slamming door reverberating behind him, leaving only her and Mike there._

_Blue eyes worried, Rivers had shook his head and muttered a warning about not pushing it as he'd hugged her goodbye._

_Looking at String's bandaged hand, Jo had to wonder what his control had cost him._

_Beside her, Saint John shifted; the wall between them as unscalable as a concrete barrier. She reached for his hand, taking icy fingers in her own as she watched them lower their daughter into the cold, hard ground._

* * *

The airstrip had rushed up to meet the plane, the uneven and cracked runway stretching before him. Not nearly long enough, Mike had thought as he'd wrestled the plane to earth, teeth gritted. Maybe if the plane had been whole, maybe if he'd been 100 percent.

Maybe a hundred things, he thought in impatience, the landing gear slamming hard to earth, jarring his teeth and Richardson's raspy labored breathing harsh in his ears counterpoint to his own.

And then, miracle of miracles, he'd been taxiing the plane to a halt whilst Jack lost his own battle.

Sorrow clogged his throat, Pierson meeting his eyes with a regretful headshake even as Mike fought to disengage himself from the pilot's harness. If he didn't get them out of here in a hurry, he realized his thoughts grim, odds were Richardson wouldn't be the only one among the dead.

He reached out with brutal efficiency, fingers snatching dog tags off the dead man's neck, knowing it'd probably be the only thing he'd be returning to his family.

"Wait!" Pierson yelped, protest in his eyes.

"Now! Move it!" Rivers snapped, the words clearly an order. "Get a move on." He gestured impatiently towards the rear of the plane.

Obviously unhappy, Pierson fell into line, his own gaze traveling back to Richardson's body sprawled across the co-pilot's seat.

Unthinkingly, Mike dropped the dog tags into his jacket pocket even as he clamored for the rear stairs, colliding with Samuels and a wounded Beckett in the process. It was clear the man's arm was shattered from the way he was holding it, and Mike knew with sickening certainty what at least one of the dull thuds he'd heard had been.

_No time for regrets, he grimaced._

He rushed to help Samuels get him down the stairs, knowing if Beckett hadn't gotten the info off, the entire mission would've been in vain.

As if reading his thoughts, Beckett roused. "Get the data off, sir," he rasped hoarsely, answering Mike's unspoken question.

Relief coursed through the pilot's blood. He shot the other man a grin. "You don't know how glad I am to hear that," he rejoined.

"Got an idea, sir," the younger blonde replied, struggling with the last of the stairs. His stance was wavery and the pallor of his skin grey by the time he did so.

Mike hauled off his own jacket, helping the other man on with it, fearing shock even as he cast an anxious glance behind him for Pierson.

A shock of short, dark brown hair topped the top of the stairs, rifling in the wind. _Maybe they would live to get out of here_, he thought, breathing a sigh of relief - trying not to think too hard of the twenty-five million dollar plane he was about to blow up.

The click of a rifle behind him and the feel of Beckett's arm stiffening on top of his had him rethinking that thought.

_Then again, maybe not_, he conceded, wincing as he turned to face a Cuban soldier AK-47 pointed at his chest.

* * *

Naomi Sanchez scowled, dropping binoculars from chocolate brown eyes with a curse. Deeply entrenched and well-trained, she'd been Archangel's first call when he'd received word he had a spy plane on its way down.

Having been in Cuba the last ten years, she looked and acted the part of a national. She was anything but as one of Archangel's best agents.

Huffing a sigh of frustration, she raised the glasses back to her eyes. Being one of the best didn't help in the least, she realized with a grimace, if she couldn't get to them.

Commander Juarez's men had beaten her to the field by less than five minutes. Gun raised even now, she watched in horror as the two blonde men faced down their captors in defiance, the other two crew members holding back. Angry words drifted to her on the wind.

Abruptly, Juarez's soldier raised his weapon, firing, killing the man in front of him. The blonde crewman behind him ducked, somehow avoiding getting shot. Stumbling to his feet, he lunged for the soldier, only to be brought up abruptly by a second rifle to his own head.

_He backed off._

Naomi breathed a shuddering sigh of relief. She had no overwhelming urge to watch any more men die today, American or otherwise. Shoving with gun barrels, she watched the soldiers hustle the captured men into a waiting jeep.

Glasses dropping, she eyed the fallen man lying on the ground in a pool of blood. Even at a distance, the sun glinted off the military insignia on his jacket. It was clear there was nothing she could do for him.

She sighed, narrowing her field of vision. The best she could hope to do at the moment was let Archangel know which one of his men were dead.

Airforce jacket, major insignia on the collar, blonde hair fluttering in the wind - great, it would have to be Rivers, she thought, realizing from Archangel's brief message there'd been only one Major on the plane and he'd been the pilot.

No way to get the plane out of here, and it's crew was as good as dead if she blew it. Some days it just didn't pay to get out of bed.

* * *

Stringfellow Hawke cast an uneasy glance at his brother beside him. Saint John's silence was starting to get to even him and he was beginning to wish for Cait's ceaseless shatter.

"String?" Saint John's voice was low, troubled and Hawke knew whatever was coming, he was going to be sorry. Even mad, Cait would've been an easier sell than Sinj.

"Yeah?"

"So, what's the deal with Tuyen?"

It wasn't the question he'd been expecting and Hawke had to scramble to regroup. _At least it wasn't some much sought after reassurance Jo would be alright._

He had his doubts. There was no such thing as coincidence to his mind, and he knew Jo and Sinj's marriage was troubled at best. Something had been off with her for more than a few weeks and she'd sidestepped his every attempt to reach her. Cait had had no better luck.

He only prayed it wasn't something serious.

"String?" Saint John's voice cut across his thoughts, prodding. "Tuyen? You know, that other woman you married…"

"Yeah, I know," he sighed. "What about her?"

"You did file the paperwork to divorce her, didn't you?"

Irritation clawed across his gut. "Yeah, Sinj, I did," he snapped. "What do you think I am, stupid?"

Silence draped itself across the cockpit, Saint John not replying.

Frustrated embarrassment stained Hawke's cheeks._ It was a valid question_, he thought remorsefully, considering. "Look, Sinj…" he began.

"So, what do you do if your marriage to Cait isn't valid?" his brother asked quietly. It was obvious he hadn't taken offense at String's sharp answer.

Thinking back to filling out the marriage license paperwork with Cait, String winced. He'd stated then he was divorced. Why the blazes hadn't the clerk caught it then?

He gave a heavy sigh. It had to be a mistake, right? "I don't know, Sinj," he muttered miserably. "I guess that just depends on Cait."

In silence Airwolf swooped low against the angry blue-grey waves towards Cuba.


	12. Chapter 12

Sighing, Tuyen Truong Hawke stopped at the fork in the trail. Beneath her, sapphire blue lake stretched out as far as she could see, bordered by California pines, the mountains in the distance.

Hawke had done well for himself, she thought absently. The place reflected a peace - something that'd been missing sorely in his soul when she'd known him. Something she'd often wondered if he'd found over the years.

She had she realized, idly picking up a stick and pulling the bark off, her dark eyes as fathomless as the waters below.

Losing Scott had been hard, harder perhaps in some ways for Stringfellow Hawke than her.

She'd loved Scott, but had come to realize it'd been with a child's love. Often she'd wondered over the years, if he'd made it back, would their love have survived.

Hawke however, was a different matter. He'd risked his life to save hers and Phuong's; given her his name when Scott couldn't, and promised her far more than she'd ever had any right to expect.

He'd taken the concept of friendship very seriously and Scott had been his friend. It hadn't been a blow he'd taken easily, especially on the heels of the loss of his brother.

The letters they'd exchanged that year had given her a glimpse into the soul of the man he'd been becoming, the man who'd saved her and her son, far more than she was sure he'd ever meant to.

Sometimes, she wondered who had saved who - him for getting her out of Vietnam when she'd surely have died over there, or her for giving him a reason to live despite the odds.

It would've been easy to fall in love with Stringfellow Hawke, the man she called husband.

And maybe, she sorta had, she admitted with a wry smile, remembering their goodbyes in the airport that day and the tears she'd shed filing their divorce papers a year later. She'd shed as many for him and what might've been, as she had for Scott.

It had been for the best, she thought, flinging the stick away, eyes damp. His heart had been no more free to love than hers had been, and he hadn't felt that way about her.

Instead, she found herself absurdly grateful they'd gone their separate ways; him to find his way home to this place and love with Caitlin and her to a new life and a love of her own.

_She only hoped her search for happiness, hadn't ruined his._

* * *

Seething, Mike Rivers raised angry blue eyes to face Colonel Juarez. Any notion he might've harbored of Cuban hospitality had been dispelled long ago.

"Hey, why don't you find somebody else to play with?" he taunted, eyeing the swarthy-skinned soldier Juarez was snarling at.

Raising his gun, the private slammed it, butt first into Pierson's ribs. The groan that went with it was agonized. Blood dripped onto the concrete below him.

"Hey, he doesn't want to play!" Rivers snapped, struggling against his own bonds. "El no quire jugar!"

A single flick of Juarez's hand brought the soldier's gun down again.

Rivers slammed his weight against the cuffs that held him, struggling to no avail. "Hey, I said he doesn't want to play!" he yelled.

Obsidian hard eyes narrowed at him disdainfully. "And you do?" the man sneered in heavily accented English.

"Try me," Rivers bit back, blue eyes blazing.

Dark brows slashed upward. He shrugged coldly. "Cut him down," he ordered, striding out of the cell. "He's next."

* * *

"What're they talking about?" eight year-old Amelia Hawke hissed at her brother Nicky, shoving closer to the loft railing.

"Well, if you'd quit talking, maybe I could tell," he snapped back in irritation, shoving back with his own shoulder.

Together, the two of them sidled closer to the loft railing, unashamedly eavesdropping on the women below.

Caitlin paced the length of the kitchen, temper flaring. "Look," she ranted. "I can't deal with this now, Tuyen! Not on top of Jo and everything else. Hawke said for you to stay here. All things considered that'd probably be a wise idea."

Raising a dark brow, the Vietnamese woman faced her. "Why? We do not exactly get along," she retorted. "I would think you'd be glad for us…to part ways as you say. It is obvious, we are not going to be friends."

Blue-green eyes flashed resentfully. Goaded beyond reason, Caitlin rounded on her. "Surely, you can't expect me to welcome with open arms the woman my husband married in the past! Someone he didn't even bother to tell me about," she snapped. "You're tearing my marriage apart!"

Startled, Nicky snatched back in surprise, blue eyes wide and scared. _Just who was this woman anyway?_

Beside him, Amelia squirmed, a frown crossing her brow. "What's she mean, Nicky?" she whispered worriedly.

He swallowed, suddenly scared. His friend Sam from school's parents had gotten a divorce. _Surely, his parents wouldn't…_

"Nicky?" she hissed, her own blue eyes anxious.

He scowled. "Shut up," he muttered, shoving past her, back to the railing, pressing his forehead up against the balustrade, straining to hear. Next to him, he could feel her press up against his body, a curly strand of her hair tickling his nose. He blew it away without comment, focusing his attention below.

Tuyen sighed, crossing her arms in front of her. A flicker of sympathy crossed her features as she glanced at the younger woman. "I am not a threat to you, Caitlin. You know that. Hawke loves you."

Red-rimmed eyes shot up to meet hers. "How would you know?" she whispered angrily, hurt wrapping itself around her like a fist.

Tuyen gave her a wistful half-smile, her own eyes as dark with memories as String's sometimes were. Cait would wonder about it later. "Because you are the other half of his soul," she whispered, turning and heading out of the cabin door.

Closing the door behind her, her final words were so soft Caitlin missed them. "I'm just glad he finally found it."

* * *

"Any sign of that refueling tanker?" String rasped to saint John. Six hours in the air with one refuel behind them and three hours ahead, left him with far too much time to think.

Glancing up, he got no answer from his brother. Odds were, if the tanker were there, Sinj would tell him, he thought with a tense, irritated shrug. He wasn't the only one worried - they were talking about his brother's best friend and wife here.

Worry darkened the blue eyes as his gaze dropped back to the instruments. He knew he'd had no choice but to leave Cait behind, but still he worried over whether he'd done the right thing.

She'd been upset with him, worried about Mike. That hadn't been made any easier by Tuyen's presence or the lack of news on Jo.

And he still wasn't so sure Jo's "accident" had been one.

Hawke gave a hefty sigh. The very real possibility remained that Cait and the kids were in danger, and he had left them alone to face it.


	13. Chapter 13

Esteban Juarez leveled coal black obsidian eyes at his group of prisoners. _Americanos, he thought with a sneer. _Arrogant fools thought they could just waltz in here and steal his country's secrets without a second thought.

A devilish light brightened his eyes, thinking of the plane seated on the runway half an hour away and the cocky American pilot awaiting him in the next room.

He was going to enjoy breaking him, almost as much as he was going to enjoy gutting that plane.

* * *

Dazed blue eyes fluttered. As Jo tossed restlessly somewhere between waking and oblivion. Old ghosts had a way of returning home and hers were no different.

_Darkness fell, cloaking the apartment in shadow. Worriedly, Jo paced the length of the rug in the living room. Saint John should've been home hours ago._

_Nervous hands fingered the mug she held. "Sinj," she muttered on an anxious breath. "Sinj, where are you?"_

Uneasily, she slept on.

* * *

Saint John Hawke froze, gun in hand, hazel eyes meeting blue. Silently, String motioned him back, his own shoulders pressed hard up against the concrete building at his back. The safety clicked off the .45 he held.

The only building anywhere near the runway that Airwolf's scans had picked up, this had to be where the T-3's crew was being held - he hoped, swallowing hard and watching a soldier pace by, Soviet made AK-47 in hand.

Right now, the silencer on the .45 made it the preferable weapon, though he had to admit he personally could've appreciated the superior firepower of the AK-47.

"Now," he hissed, motioning Saint John with his left hand and watching his brother slide silently around the corner. He paused for a heartbeat and then followed.

Booted steps paced rapidly down the empty hallway, String's shorter stride almost matching his brother's longer one.

* * *

A fisted hand crashed against Rivers' bruised and bloodied cheek. Senses reeling, the pilot's head snapped back from the force of the blow. The coppery, metallic taste of blood was strong in his mouth now.

"Just what did you hope to accomplish?" Juarez snarled contemptuously, "spying in my own backyard?"

"You mean, you can think of a better place?" Rivers taunted back, spitting blood at the man and knowing the words were likely to earn him another well-deserved blow for his trouble.

_He had figured he was dead anyway the moment Pierson had let slide he was the pilot. _

Juarez didn't disappoint. The next blow across his ribs had him retching and gasping for air. "You will talk," he promised, his swarthy face shoved up in Mike's, nearly nose to nose.

_He should've told Sarah goodbye, Mike thought, abruptly sorry he hadn't. Sorry he hadn't told her one last time he loved her - even if her brothers would've kicked his sorry butt for saying it._

"Like hell I will," he gasped, narrowing blue eyes at the man.

Incensed, Juarez reached for him, snatching a handful of curly blonde hair and wrenching his head back. Furious, he shoved the business end of the 9mm he held into Mike's neck, just beneath the jawbone. "Then I really have no use for you, then do I?" he snarled angrily, shoving the gun harder into Rivers' throat.

Wincing, Mike flinched, squeezing his eyes shut as the safety clicked off the gun.

A shot rang out, deafeningly loud and ear piercing, so close he could smell the acrid scent of gunpowder in the air. Weight like a ton of bricks slammed into his chest, crushing him; his vision greyed as he fought to breathe.

And then, abruptly, Saint John was there, strong, muscular hands hauling Juarez's dead weight off him and dumping him unceremoniously into the floor. "You okay, Mike?" he demanded, hazel eyes worried as he gripped the younger man's shoulder.

Behind him, String shoved the .45 into his waistband.

Heaving in a shuddering breath, Rivers opened stunned blue eyes taking in Juarez's body at his feet. Flinching, he took in the cold, dead eyes and the perfectly centered bullet wound to the middle of the forehead, knowing by all rights it should've been him.

Swallowing hard, he ripped his gaze away. "What the hell took you two so long?" he rasped hoarsely.

His own blue eyes crinkling in relief, String shot his brother a grin. "Something tells me he'll be fine, Sinj." Fishing in his flight suit pocket, he dug out a pocketknife that he used to slice the bonds that held Mike. "Now, let's see about getting the heck out of here."

* * *

Frowning, Marella scowled at the computer screen in front of her, trying to make sense out of twenty year-old plus documents. Whoever had scanned these things in should've been shot, she thought with an irritated sigh. At best, they'd been incompetent.

Tired fingers massaged the pounding in her temple. She'd found out more about Hawke today than she'd ever dreamed of knowing - from where he'd gone to school, to when he'd had his appendix out at twelve. He'd joined the Army at seventeen, following his brother halfway around the world. Vaguely, she wondered how he'd gotten Santini to agree to that, eyeing the sprawling signature on the documents and wondering if it really was Dom's. Hawke had been determined enough even then and the Army desperate enough for good helo pilots she wouldn't have been surprised in the least if it wasn't.

None of which helped her in the least, she thought with a frustrated sigh. Hawke's military record in 'Nam had been exemplorary up until about two years in, shortly after his brother went missing.

Driven and obsessed, she would have expected - AWOL stunned her. Even then she couldn't have seen Hawke backing down from a fight - and yet, inexplicably that seemed to be exactly what he'd done - him and his bunkmate, Scott Reynolds disappearing for two days during some of the heaviest fighting his unit had seen.

And then Hawke had shown up two days later, a Vietnamese girlfriend and a newborn baby in tow, Reynolds dead. Dark eyebrows climbed as she read the action reports. Hawke had nearly got himself shot at the gate by an overenthusiastic sentry, passing out after the crisis was over from his wounds.

Shaking her head, Marella's grin was wry. Now that sounded like the Stringfellow Hawke she knew.

Hawke had demanded to marry the girl and somehow avoided being court-martialed. How, she'd never know…and he'd taken her back to the States, ...but not to Dom strangely enough, it seemed.

_So, where? _Fascinated despite herself, Marella paged through the next couple pages, cursor clicking before she found the information she was hunting - Denver, Colorado.

Why Denver? she wondered. Hawke had no relatives there that she knew of…and Dom would've looked out for Tuyen and Phuong when he'd gone back to the front like they were his own - nothing had meant more to the old Italian than family. String and Saint John were examples of that, even if they weren't blood.

And yet,... there was no sign Hawke had ever even told his foster father of them…

Puzzled, Marella took a sip of coffee gone almost cold.

_Unless…_

Suddenly sure, Marella's fingers clattered across the keyboard finding what she'd only suspected. Hawke's bunkmate, Reynolds had been from Denver and his parents still lived there.

Stunned, she sat back. _Tuyen had been Reynold's girlfriend, not Hawke's._

Well, that explained the marriage and not telling Dom, she thought, finishing the now cold coffee. Unfortunately, it didn't do a thing to explain the divorce or lack there of.

Skimming forward a year, she looked at the duty reports for the month Hawke had said he'd filed the divorce paperwork. Nothing particularly stood out except for the fact a Staff Sergeant Michael Lewis had managed to get himself murdered the night before he was to fly home to the States.

Lousy luck, she thought frowning. Not particularly well-liked, it probably wouldn't have even made the duty reports had it not been for the inquiry the base police had made when they had trouble locating the next of kin.

Idly running a well-manicured finger down the list of personal effects listed as belonging to the deceased, Marella paused at the mention of a manila envelope.

She hesitated, looking at the date of the incident. There'd only been two helicopters carrying mail in the timespan Hawke had mentioned. Hawke's letter had to be on one of them. He said he knew it made it, because he'd personally handed it to some Staff Sergeant that was shipping out.

"_Lewis," _she breathed. It had to be. _But what were the odds the envelope listed in his effects was Hawke's? Wouldn't it have been mailed?_

She hit the intercom button nearly upsetting the empty coffee cup. "Lauren," she demanded, "Where would unclaimed personal effects in an open military murder investigation during Vietnam be kept?"

Stunned silence reigned on the other end of the line. "Uh-hhh, ma'am?" the bewildered assistant finally stuttered. "When?"

Hitting the print key, Marella hurriedly shoved the printed files into a folder as she went. "You heard me, Lauren, unclaimed personal effects from an open military murder investigation from Vietnam. Where would they be?"

"Um-m, National Personnel Records in saint Louis, ma'am," she answered, praying she was right.

"Then get me a flight," Marella ordered. "I've got some digging to do."


	14. Chapter 14

"How bad's the plane?" Saint John demanded, watching his brother cut through the last of Mike's bonds impatiently.

"Flyable," Rivers rasped, biting back a groan when String jostled him getting him loose. Gripping his arm, he helped him to his feet.

Paling noticeably, Rivers wavered momentarily before Saint John caught his other arm.

Hawke's blue eyes narrowed suspiciously watching him. "What about the pilot?" he asked.

Mike grimaced, cradling his arm to his chest. "I've been better," he said wryly.

Comprehension dawned in Saint John's lean features as he eyed the two of them. "How much better?" he queried, reaching to take a look at Mike's injured arm.

The younger pilot winced, clamping his fingers around the arm and keeping it well out of reach. Lines of strain were evident around his eyes and in the pinched look around his mouth. "Let's put it this way, Sinj, I won't be flying that plane or any other anywhere any time soon."

"You're sure?" String frowned eyeing Rivers doubtfully, all the while mentally calculating, knowing there was no way he was going to be able to fit all the plane's crew aboard Airwolf, along with the full contingent of weapons he'd need if he had to blow the plane and escape whatever the Cubans threw at them.

Rivers raised bruised and bloody fingers from his sleeve to show a glimpse of bone-white protruding through the skin. "Yeah," he said weakly. "I'm pretty sure."

Grimacing, Hawke swallowed hard, bile tasting bitter in his own throat and feeling vaguely sick.

_Compound fracture. Not only was Mike not flying that plane outta here, he'd be real lucky if he didn't lose that arm._

* * *

Wincing, Jo pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. To say she had the mother of all headaches, didn't even begin to describe the aching pounding in her head.

Stark white and pale blue walls surrounded her, a single vase of pink-tipped roses on the windowsill.

Sinj, she thought with the faintest ghost of a smile, knowing only he would've remembered they were her favorite. It faded as quickly as it'd come.

_Hospital, she thought with a grimace, trying to place how she'd ended up here. _The pounding in her head intensified. Great, just getting better by the minute. If Sinj hadn't guessed something was up before, he'd surely know now.

Vaguely, she wondered how he'd taken the news as she slid a hand unconsciously across her flat stomach. She knew better than to hope the doctor's hadn't said anything.

The pounding in her head settled to a dull throb like a herd of elephants stomping in time. Fingers gently probing, she felt the lump at the back of her head and the bandages encircling it.

Memories of standing outside the hanger with the kids came rushing back in - Amelia's face when the man came charging around the corner, shoving her gun in hand, grabbing for her purse and knowing all the while Nicky too was an easy shot, if only he noticed him.

_His eyes had been wild, crazed, cold as ice; and all she could think of was they were all going to die - mere feet from the guys and help._

Unthinkingly, she'd fought back, Amelia ducking free and running for the hanger screaming like a banshee. She'd been sure the man would shoot the child and lunged for the gun.

Instead, he'd thrown her to the ground, pain exploding as her head hit the concrete, the bore of the gun he held leveling in her direction. Why she was still alive, she'd never know…

Her fingers snagged on the bandage encircling her midriff and a glance around the room made her wonder though, if there was any reason left to celebrate.

* * *

"String, I really don't think this is a good idea," Saint John commented, slanting his brother a worried look.

"Probably not," the younger Hawke agreed, shooting a narrowed look over at Mike where he slumped wanly against Airwolf's side. "As I see it though Sinj, we don't have a lot of other options."

"Yeah, but…"

Ice blue eyes met his. "Look, Sinj, you know as well as I do that plane's crew would be in about the same boat as you were in that Viet Cong prison in Laos. Now, can you really leave them, knowing that?"

Saint John shot a frustrated glance at his friend Rivers, as he huffed an irritated sigh. He raked an exasperated hand through his hair, knowing his brother had him. "No, but…"

Blue eyes glanced up, holding his for half a heart-beat, waiting.

Saint John's gaze was the first to drop. He shoved away from the tree where he leaned. "You realize of course, that half the Cuban airforce is going to come after you the moment you try to get that thing up off the ground?"

"Yep," String replied implacably, as he slammed a new clip into his .45. He slid the gun into his belt with the long practiced ease of experience, all the while Saint John glared at him.

"What?" he queried, feeling the heat of his brother's gaze.

Scowling, Saint John shook his head.

Realization dawned at the worry he saw in his brother's face and he flashed him a wicked grin. "Hey, that's what I've got you for, right?" he teased.

In spite of his own worry, Saint John felt his own lips twitch. "Cait was right, you know," he complained. "You are crazy."

"Well," String drawled, "You know what they say…"

"What?" his brother demanded, suddenly suspicious.

"Insanity runs in families."

Hazel eyes meeting blue, Saint John bit off a hoarse laugh. "They must be right," he agreed dryly. "I'm flying shotgun for you, and it doesn't get any crazier than that."

* * *

Stiletto heels echoed across polished concrete floors, reverberating off the shelves stacked high with files, files dating back two and a half decades.

"Can I help you?" a strident voice clipped out.

Lips pursed, Marella paused in mid-stride, ivory skirts swishing around her knees. Irritated, she worked to paste a half-smile to her lips as she turned around.

"I sure hope so," she grinned, flashing her trademark smile, her dark eyes twinkling.

The stern-faced Staff Sergeant doffed his cover. "Begging your pardon, ma'am. No one mentioned any visitors being expected today."

Marella sighed prettily. "Wouldn't you just know it…they would send me on another wild goose chase." A slender hand fluttered helplessly. "I don't suppose you could help me, Mr…um?"

Weathered cheeks creased appreciatively. "Staff Sergeant Santos. What was it I could help you with, Ms…?"

"Briggs," Marella replied with a smile, warmly clasping his hand in her own. "Well, I…"

* * *

The wind blew hot and humid across his skin, sweat sticking light brownish fringe to his forehead, blue eyes narrowed against the unrelenting glare. Gut clenching, Stringfellow Hawke eyed the distance to the plane seated squarely in the center of the runway.

150 yards, he told himself, eyeing the pock-marked, dilapidated strip of gravel and hardpan. It's only a 150 yards - how far can that be?

The sound of rifle fire ricocheting off composite hide and the answering thud of Airwolf's chain guns told him it'd have to be close enough. Gun in hand, he lunged for the battered plane, hoping saint John's distraction would be enough to get her in the air.

Heart pounding, he thudded towards the plane, the pounding of his heart keeping up with the pounding of his boots against the uneven concrete.

"There! Allí!"

Cringing, he caught the guard's cry, his Spanish rusty from disuse, but not rusty enough to not know he'd been spotted. Yells split the air behind him, sharp, barked commands, the grinding of gears as a jeep was thrown into pursuit. Overhead, Airwolf whipped by, swooping back, the rattle of 30mm gun fire cutting a trench between Hawke and his pursuers.

_Fifty yards to go. _Turning, String swung a hasty glance over his shoulder, weaving to avoid the gunfire.

Even as he did so, his foot hit an uneven spot in the weed-ridden runway. Twisting his ankle, he slammed to the ground, the air whooshing out of his lungs, the .45 slamming to the ground from his outstretched hand, skittering across the uneven concrete.

A muttered curse cut across Saint John's ears as Piersoon struggled to run engineering and caught sight of Hawke near the plane.

It was enough to send Mike shoving past him, the fingers of his good hand scrabbling over the keys.

"Mike?" Saint John's voice cut across the helmet feed, tense and worried. "Where's String? He okay?"

The blonde pilot bit back a grunt of pain as Samuels jostled against his arm. Airwolf banked sharply, the force of her abrupt turn nearly dumping him from the jumpseat. Grasping the edge of the console, he struggled to stay out of the floor as Saint John swung back the way they'd come, placing Airwolf squarely between his brother and the oncoming jeep.

A volley of machine gun fire slammed across the windscreen.

"He's up," Pierson's tense voice clipped across the air waves. "Almost there…"

"He okay?" Saint John demanded, the question clearly directed at Mike.

Rivers fought to bring the video feed into focus, his fingers trailing a bloody smear across the keyboard. "Yeah," he muttered, watching Hawke scoop up the dropped gun and stagger up the stairs, still holding his side.

_At least, he hoped so._


	15. Chapter 15

Panting, String flung himself towards the pilot's seat of the T-3. Lungs burning, chest aching he forced himself to fumble through the pre-flight list. Miss something and die, he thought, wincing at the burning ache in his ribs, take too long, get caught and die. Damned if you do, damned if you don't…

He shoved the headset on in the same instant a lean finger flipped the starboard engine switch. The radio crackled to life.

Dark blue eyes flickered over his right shoulder, watching as the engine coughed and sputtered, struggling to start. Well, at least he knew which one had been hit, he thought humorlessly. Now, whether it'd hold…

Still breathing hard, air rasping through his aching lungs, tanned fingers scrambled to flip the switch for the second engine, hearing it roar to life. 'Bout time.

Radio static crackled in his ears. "Eagle One to Airwolf, do you copy?"

"We're here String," Saint John's rough steady tones assured, the thud of canon fire echoing back. "Little shell-shocked maybe," he rasped, swinging Airwolf out of an incoming mortar round, feeling the explosion reverberate through the cabin around him. "But here."

"Then let's get this show on the road," String retorted, eyeing the dust plume rising rapidly in the air as an olive drab jeep quickly cut the distance between the compound and the plane. Behind the radio noise, incoming radar abruptly screed to life, picking up a pair of incoming Migs. Hawke shoved the throttle forward hard and prayed.

* * *

Blue-green eyes troubled, Caitlin Hawke stared at the paperwork Marella handed her across the battered, metal desk at Santini Air. "You knew, too?" she asked bitterly, recognizing her husbands bold scrawl across the page. She hated the sharp bite of betrayal that accompanied the words. Had she been the only one clueless, the only one who hadn't known?

She shoved the papers away.

"Hawke called and asked before he left," Marella returned, the coffee brown eyes sympathetic even as she pushed the file back towards her. "It really was dumb luck, Cait. He was every bit as upset as you are."

"He could've told me," the red-head muttered mutinously, her pain evident in the tremble of her lower lip as she fought back tears, refusing to open the file.

Marella sighed, wondering vaguely when she'd taken up marriage counseling. "Yeah, he could've Cait. But that's not Hawke and we both know it." Suddenly bone weary, she shifted against the desk. "He thought it was over and done with, years ago."

Her tone was compassionate. "A reasonable conclusion in my estimation." A well-manicured nail pushed the file back in Cait's direction.

She made no attempt to reach for it, avoiding Marella's gaze.

The older woman stood silent for a long moment, a worried frown creasing her forehead before she turned to go. She paused, turning on the threshold. "We all have secrets, Cait, whether we like it or not. Some we choose, some choose us. Hawke's still the same man you fell in love with, the same man he's always been. And if you're honest with yourself, I don't think you'd have it any other way. Read the file." She was gone in a swish of cream-colored silk.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence. Unthinkingly, a slender, freckled hand reached for the stack of papers as if of its own volition. Thumbing through them, she paused at a faded snapshot of a much younger, rangier Stringfellow Hawke leaning against a medical supply cabinet, ribs taped and bandaged holding a squalling baby. Tuyen, barely a teenager, looking terrified, stood at the edge of the photo.

Cait sighed, feeling the slide of tears down her cheeks as she rubbed her thumb fondly across the picture. Hawke couldn't have looked more scared if somebody had just tossed him a live grenade.

"Even then, huh, String?" she whispered, with a choked laugh. Shaking her head, she slid the photo to the side to read the pages Marella had left.

* * *

The plane shuddered, climbing. Muscles clenched, Hawke hauled back on the yoke of the plane, aiming for the end of the runway, aft radar screaming in his ears.

Beneath him, he felt the familiar sensation of the earth falling away as he flung the plane skyward. "Come on baby, come on climb," he muttered, pulling back hard on her nose. Maybe, just maybe, they'd make it…

Radar locked on…

He rolled the plane hard left, felt the unmistakable shudder of the starboard engine choking, dying.

Missile away. "Ah, he-…"

Turbulence slammed the underbelly of the plane, dropping it thirty feet in a heartbeat. A black streak slashed across the sky, slamming itself between the plummeting plane and a rapidly gaining Apex missile.

Second engine stalling, String fought to roll the plane upright as the missile picked up Airwolf's hotter heat signature. Gritting his teeth, he manhandled her back under control as Saint John rolled Airwolf into an Aileron roll, dropping in behind the missile and taking it out in one shot. The first Mig followed in quick succession.

A tanned hand slammed across the instrument panel, hitting the re-start switch for the second engine as the T-3 wallowed upright in a gut-clenching roll.

The starboard engine stuttered to life.

The second Mig swung back.

String snatched for the throttle.

Airwolf swung hard around on her own axis, tail boom fishtailing. She loosed a Maverick so close String cursed, ducking.

Heat and flame rolled across the cockpit, as the plane slung itself towards the deck, skimming the tree tops towards open water.

Radar flared and cleared, the second Mig gone.

"Hell, Saint John," String rasped, finally daring to breathe. "You're supposed to shoot it, not me!"

Saint John's husky chuckle rumbled across the airwaves. "Hey, you're still here aren't you?"

The plane wing dipped down as Hawke swung it in a lazy, graceful arc ocean wards. A lean finger shoved sliding sunglasses up the bridge of his nose as he checked instruments. "Barely," he grumbled, obviously disgruntled.

Saint John laughed. "Well, you know what they say, String. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand-grenades."

Hawke grunted, an unwilling grin starting to tug at his lips. "Whoever said that, never flew with you."

His brother snorted in amusement. "Or you," he rejoined.


	16. Chapter 16

The rain streamed down the window pane, a never-ending torrent; the rumble of thunder sharp in her ears. Memories pressed back in in hideous clarity - the look on Saint John's face when he'd shown up at the hospital two years ago - already too late, String hard on his heels. The panic, the fear, knowing something was wrong, yet not knowing what.

Even now, she could remember the light of relief in his hazel eyes, as he'd spotted her in the hospital hallway. The way the tension had rolled out of him, as his strong arms enveloped her, dragging her to him. The desperate relief in his husky voice as he'd whispered, "Oh baby, you scared me. I'm so glad you're okay,'' as he'd held her close.

_Except everything hadn't been okay_, she thought with a gulp as she fought the sheets, swinging unsteadily out of the hospital bed and staggering to the window, wanting to be anywhere but here.

To this day, she thought String had realized it first, pain settling over his face and defeat sagging his shoulders as he took in her tear-tracked cheeks and reached for Saint John's shoulder.

A low moan escaped her lips as she remembered the look on Saint John's face, the way he'd greyed before her, staggering, tears running down his cheeks as she'd fought for words to tell him their daughter was dead. The heaving breath of a silent sob, as a man she'd always thought of as unbreakable crumpled before her, Bella's name on his lips.

Wincing, Jo leaned against the window, misery in her eyes wondering how she could ever do it again. To offer Sinj the one thing he most wanted, only to snatch it away in the next breath. Choking back a sob, she pressed her forehead against the glass, one palm sliding down it damply.

Behind her, the thick wood door snicked open; a heavyset nurse frowning, scowl lines sharp in her face as she saw her patient out of bed - most definitely against doctor's orders. "Mrs. Hawke," she clipped, the irritated words dying on her lips as she took in the silent sobs that shook the slender frame and the tear-filled violet eyes.

Feeling suddenly old she sighed wearily, tired steps carrying her across the worn tile floor to wrap a comforting arm around the younger woman's shoulders. "Doctor Peters wants to speak to you. Why don't we get you settled back in , before he has both our heads?"

* * *

Storm clouds roiled across the skies above the lake - dark, angry, menacing. Almost subconsciously, Tuyen shuddered superstitiously, crossing herself. _Õm may mắn _as her grandmother would've called it - a harbringer of doom.

Impatience bit at her - had twenty years of living in America taught her nothing? It was superstition - nothing more, and she was not a child any longer. It meant nothing...

Still…nervous fingers plucked uneasily at a branch, that slapped stingingly against her face, as she remembered it was a storm such as this that had blown Stringfellow Hawke into her life in the first place, and taken Scott from her.

Long, dark hair whipped around her waist as she struggled back to the cabin suddenly anxious as black, shadowy clouds piled up and surrounded everything in their angry maw.

* * *

"Cait! Hey, Cait, where are you?" Everett's worried voice echoed off the hanger walls, reaching back to the cramped office.

Abruptly snatching back to reality, Caitlin dropped the picture she held as if it'd burned her. "In here, Ev," she called back, hoping he didn't hear the quaver in her voice as clearly as she did.

Everett's usually cheerful face swung around the office door, even as a gust of wind whipped through the office, swirling and tossing all the papers she'd just been reading into the air.

Instinctively, Cait's hands slapped down across the desk, just in time to catch the photo of String and the baby right before it took flight.

"Yeah, Ev?" the redhead questioned, biting back a sigh of frustration as papers rained down around her, littering the floor. "What's up?"

Concerned brown eyes met hers. "Thought you were flying back to the cabin an hour ago."

"I…I was," Cait stuttered, giving him a wan smile. "Well, at least I intended to." Blinking, she drew a shaky breath. "Why, what's up?"

A worried scowl settled across his face. "I got a radio message from a …Tuyen."

"Yeah?" Cait questioned, her voice gone flat.

"Seems a storm's blowing in up there, and she can't find Nicky."

"What do you mean she can't find Nicky?" the red-head demanded, feeling full-fledged panic grab hold. _She'd known she should have never left the kids there with that woman. What had she been thinking?_

Frantically, Cait snatched open the desk drawer, reaching for her purse, her fingers scrabbling across the metal bottom and breaking a nail. She didn't seem to even notice.

Watching her, Everett's frown was worried. "There's something else you need to know, Caitlin," he said.

"What?" she snapped impatiently, suddenly meeting his eyes.

"There's a storm moving in here," he began. "I thought you were gone, so…"

"Storm?" the redhead demanded. "What storm?"

"Yeah," the mechanic muttered grimly, as he dragged off a battered baseball cap and raked his hand through his hair, knowing she wasn't going to like what he was about to say. "Mother of all storms, they're saying…the tower's shutting down the airfield."

The drawer slammed shut with a bang, Caitlin shoving past him running out of the office and through the hanger.

"Cait?!!" he yelled. "Cait, wait!"

* * *

Beneath his hands, Hawke felt the plane shudder again. There was no denying the starboard side engine was failing now. It was just a matter of time, before it seized up completely - assuming of course, he didn't run out of fuel first. A square-tipped finger thumped the cracked fuel gauge in frustration. Evidently, the engine hadn't been the only thing hit back there.

"Anything on radar yet?" String's worried voice cut across Airwolf's radio. Sinj shot an anxious glance Mike's way, noting the way his head lolled loosely, before pulling up the radar display himself. _You didn't have to tell him they were running out of time and luck. _

"Not a thing," he remarked wearily. "Unless, of course you count that helluva huge storm moving in from the east."

Hawke winced, rolling his aching shoulders against the knot of tension that had long since settled in them. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know if they didn't find that carrier soon, Archangel wouldn't be having to worry about anybody ending up with his military secrets.

"How much fuel you got left?" he asked.

"Enough," Saint John clipped. "I'm not leaving you, baby bro."

Blue eyes crinkled wearily at the bulldog determination in Sinj's voice. He didn't have to guess to know the Lady had to be on fumes by now. There'd been no re-fueling in Cuba. The USS Enterprise remained their best bet - both the Lady's and Mike's.

He only hoped it was his as well. Archangel had been a little vague about how many feet it took to land this thing.


	17. Chapter 17

The storm blew in from the east, swirling muddying currents around her ankles. Shoving a dripping strand out of her face, with a grimy hand, 'Melia stomped a petite foot sending mud splattering everywhere. Her lower lip trembled as she fought back tears. "I'm not going!" she yelled defiantly.

It earned her a sharp slap, one that landed her on her backside in the mud, wetness seeping into her jeans.

"Get up, brat!" he snarled. "Or you'll get a lot worse than that."

She didn't much like this man, with the beady eyes and cold, cruel mouth.

She knew him too.

He was the man who'd tried to kill her aunt Jo.

* * *

Pacing, Michael limped the length of his office. "You want me to do what?" he roared. "Hawke, you're talking about wanting to land the military's top secret reconnaissance plane on a carrier with roughly 5,000 people on it! Not to mention, Airwolf? Has it occurred to you, that maybe, just maybe somebody might notice that?"

The laconic voice that cut across the satellite feed wasn't amused. "And has it occurred to you, Michael," Hawke retorted, "unless you find me a landing strip somewhere close in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, you're going to be down not one top secret aircraft, but two?"

Leaning against Archangel's cherry desk, arms crossed Marella arched one well-coiffed eyebrow, trying not to grin. _Hawke had him there._

Pausing, Archangel sighed, already kneading his brow with his free hand. "Fine, Hawke. I'll see what I can do."

"Better make it soon, Michael," the pilot clipped, punching out.

Archangel wheeled, leaning heavily on his cane. "Marella, get me…"

"Langley, sir?" The smirk on her lips was hard to miss. "They're on line one." She picked up a file as she started to stroll out of the room.

A single blue eye narrowed suspiciously. _If he didn't know better, he'd have thought she knew what Hawke was up to even before he'd talked to him. _"Thanks,…I think." Hesitating his hand hovered over the phone.

"Of course, sir." There was no denying the amusement in her voice this time as she sauntered out in a swish of cream-colored silk.

"And stop calling me sir!" he growled watching her go.

Her melodic laughter trailed down the hall behind her.

* * *

Thudding, the skids of the Santini Air jet ranger hit the wood planks of the dock with a dull thump. Scrambling out and swinging down, red-hair whipping in the wind Cait ran for the cabin steps and the dark-haired woman standing there.

"Did you find him? Where is he?" she demanded, frantically searching the shadows behind her.

Tuyen shook her head sympathetically, reaching for her arm. "No, Caitlin."

There was something in her tone that brought Cait up short, even as frustration tumbled through her. "What?" she demanded, blue-green eyes narrowing.

The dark eyes that met hers were worried, but there was more than that in their depths. Fear - it was fear. Fear, Caitlin realized with dread certainty, fear far greater than there should be for a runaway child. "What?" she demanded hoarsely. "What's happened?"

"Someone's been here, Cait. I think they took the kids. They're both gone."

* * *

"Carrier up ahead," the words cut across String's senses, so numb, he shook his head as if in a daze.

"How far?"

"Thirty minutes out." Pierson's voice returned, clearly monitoring engineering.

Muscle clenching in his jaw, Hawke tried not to dwell on what that might mean. "Any word from Archangel?" he asked tersely.

"Nope."

Wearily, Hawke winced, closing his eyes momentarily. If Michael hadn't gotten a hold of Langley and the Enterprise by now, the likelihood was they'd be scrambling jets for target practice any moment now.

"Great," he muttered. "Get me the skipper and patch me through."

Even as he spoke, the onboard communication alarm shrilled. Ignoring Pierson's stuttered response, Hawke punched up the channel.

"Eagle 1, Eagle 1 this is the USS carrier Enterprise. Do you copy?"

Praying this wasn't his last warning before they shot him down, Hawke hit the send button. "USS Enterprise this is Eagle 1, I copy."

The skipper's voice rumbled across the airwaves, gruff. "Hawke, what the Hades are you up to that I have the Joint Chiefs of Staff on the wire?"

_Archangel had gotten through. Thank God._

"Wish I could say, sir," came String's reply. Was it his imagination, or was the starboard engine faltering again?

A rapid glance over his right shoulder assured him it was not. Grimacing, he pulled back on the yoke.

"You still there, Hawke?" the captain's voice bit out impatiently.

"Yes, sir," String replied, snatching his attention back to the radio and the man who held all their lives in his hands.

"Well, to what do I owe this pleasure?" the captain snapped.

"I need to see about landing a T-3 reconnaissance plane and a helicopter on your deck."

"You what?" the man demanded. "You can't land a T-3 on a carrier!"

"No other options, sir," String bit out, hearing the engine cut out again. _Crap. _

"How 'bout ditching it?" the USS Enterprise's captain retorted.

"Not really an option," Hawke rejoined. Nose heavy, the plane dropped like a rock, as his hand slammed the instrument panel and the re-start switch. He fought the urge to curse as the muscles in his arms corded and he wrestled a plane as aerodynamic as a falling boulder back into the air. Coughing, the engine caught again.

Irritated, the Captain sighed. "How far out are you?"

Glancing down at the cracked instrument panel, he endeavored to run a quick calculation in his head. "Twenty-three minutes more or less." _He hoped - assuming the plane stayed in the air, as did the Lady._

"Come again?" the skipper asked in disbelief, eyeing his own radar.

"Twenty-three minutes, sir."

A frustrated hand rubbed a knotted brow. "I don't even know if what you're asking is possible, Hawke…I'd have to move all the planes on the deck."

"Yes, sir," String agreed quietly, waiting…

The man sighed. "Let me see what I can do."

* * *

The rain whipped down, sharp and stinging on her bare arms, as Cait stared down at the muddy booted footprint in disbelief. How? How on earth had someone found the cabin? It wasn't like you could just waltz in here…it took a helicopter or horseback.

Better yet, why? The art was still here…there wasn't any real money, Airwolf maybe? Worried, the red-head's brow furrowed as a slender finger traced the dark outline.

"Cait?" Tuyen's voice cut across jumbled thoughts. "There's more."

"Yeah?" she replied absently, blue-green eyes still studying the mark, trying to make sense of it.

"I think you'd better read this," the Vietnamese woman insisted, her face strained as she handed her a crumpled, stained envelope.

"What?" Caitlin demanded, reaching for it noting the look on her face; her own blanching as she read the note inside.

Anxious dark, brown eyes scanned Hawke's wife's lighter ones. "What…does it mean?" she whispered.

Cait's voice was hoarse when she answered. "Jo's accident was no accident. Somebody from Hawke's past wants revenge and now he's planning to use Nicky and Amelia to get it."

* * *

Concerned, Saint John looked over his shoulder at engineering. Pierson was doing a competent job, even if he looked more than a little worried. He'd have been glad to have him on any team he'd headed up. No wonder Mike had picked him.

Beside him, Samuels shifted.

Him, he wasn't so sure about…

Muttering, husky and barely intelligible snatched his attention back to the co-pilot's seat. Rivers, his eyes closed and skin a chalky grey, murmured something under his breath… he couldn't quite catch it.

Geesh…he looked bad, Sinj thought. _Like death warmed…_

_Not going there, Hawke. _Shoving the thought aside, his hand tightened on the stick. "Mike," he called. "Mike! You still with me?"

Blue eyes the color of stormy skies flashed open. Hazed with pain, they didn't focus immediately.

The retort when it came was patently Mike though. "You're 1,200 feet up Saint John, in a helicopter. Where the hell else do you think I'd be?"

Grinning, Sinj gave a rough laugh. "Good point, Rivers. You've got me there."

Grimacing, Mike shifted trying unsuccessfully to bite back a ragged breath.

Sinj's hazel eyes narrowed on his friend.

"Any sign of the carrier?"

"No," Saint John replied soberly, eyeing the instruments.

Wincing, River's jaw clenched. Swallowing hard, he fought for words. _Not only was he not going to make it, but the odds were decent he might cost the lives of four good men in doing so - two of them, his best friends._

"I'm sorry, Sinj," he muttered.

"For what?" the older pilot demanded, throwing him a startled glance. "Mike?"

Dark blue eyes fluttered shut, his words slurring together. "Tell Sarah…"

"Rivers?!" Saint John demanded roughly, sudden fear clenching his gut. "Tell her what?"

There was no answer though, as Mike slid back under into blessed darkness.


	18. Chapter 18

Shivering, 'Melia sidled up against Nicky on the cold, damp rock. Silently, he scooted over to give her room, angry blue eyes staring balefully at their captor. _Who the heck did he think he was anyway? _Beside him, she sniffled softly. He reached for her hand.

Watching them, the man laughed his tone mocking. "What, cat got your tongue, kid?" He reached over snagging 'Melia's hair in his fingers and giving it a sharp, cruel tug.

She cried out in pain.

Nicky was on his feet instantly, fists clenched, shoving back with all his strength. "Leave her alone!" he yelled, fairly spitting fury.

The man merely laughed, stepping back. "Ohh-ho, ho," he sneered. "Hawke's kittens have claws." Throwing up his hands, he started to walk away.

Faltering, Nicky hesitated, shooting his sister a confused glance. The man was on him in a heartbeat, the sharp cuff he landed across his ear sending him staggering back. Stumbling, Nicky nearly fell.

The man's lip curled mockingly, watching him. "You'll need 'em."

* * *

It was as if the years in between had never happened, Cait thought, reaching for Hawke's .45 behind the bar. Or maybe it was because they had. Effortlessly, she found herself slipping back into "cop" mode.

Slender fingers wrapped around the clip, sliding it home. "You need to stay here," she told Tuyen, as she automatically reached for the spare ammo clip on the polished wood countertop of the bar. It never occurred to her, the other woman would not agree.

Startled doe-brown eyes stared at her, taking in the gun, the measure of resolute certainty that had descended upon the redhead. Tuyen squared her shoulders. "No, I will not."

Stunned, Cait froze. "Look, Tuyen," she began, rationale fighting with the instant flare of temper. _She didn't have time for this…what had Hawke been thinking, leaving this woman here?_

She realized her hands were shaking, the fingers of her left hand still on the trigger of the gun, a rising anger overwhelming her. Swallowing hard, she realized maybe she wasn't as much cop as she'd like. Carefully, she set it down.

Forcing the wobble out of her words, she spoke. "You need to stay here. You'll be safer." _And out of my way, the uncharitable thought slipped in. _"I'm trained for this, you're not."

The Vietnamese woman's gaze slipped away, lost somewhere in the open doorway behind her in the storm dark skies and the rain-drenched pines. Silence reined.

_Who knew what she thought? Who cared? _Cait thought bitterly. She reached for a jacket and the gun.

"I'm going," bluntly spoken, the words left no room for argument.

Cait slammed the gun down. "No, you're not Tuyen!" she flared.

The gaze that met hers was unflinching. "They are Hawke's children. I will not leave them, any more than he left mine."

Abruptly, Caitlin was reminded of the faded photo of String holding the squalling baby. Unreasoning pain rose up to choke her.

"Fine," she muttered ungraciously. "It's your funeral." Palming the gun, she headed out the door, Tuyen right behind her.

* * *

Wincing, Hawke fought the scream of unused muscles, hitting another pocket of air turbulence. _Never again would he complain about the Lady and her temperament._

There was no denying the storm was moving in full force.

A little more and it wouldn't matter whether the skipper got all his planes in the air. This one wouldn't be.

"Hang in there, baby," he whispered. "Just a little longer."

* * *

Pacing, John Spencer, skipper of the USS Enterprise raked a weary hand across a stubbled jaw. First, the Joint Chiefs, then the storm, now a shot down spy plane miraculously resurrected from the dead.

_What next?_

"Sir, we've got them on radar - mile and a half out."

"Planes out?" A scream of an F-14 overhead echoed off the con.

The communications officer shook his head, one hand to his headset, face intent. "Not yet."

* * *

Nervously, Jo pleated the edge of the sheet. _How long did it take to find a doctor to impart bad news anyway?_

Swallowing hard, she fought down the fear that threatened to consume her, despair rising up, choking her. She'd heard the nurses whispering in the hall, sensed the pitying glances.

Not that she hadn't felt it before, she thought, fighting down a hysterical sob, torn between laughter and tears.

This…she remembered all too well, anxiously twisting the wedding bands on her left hand.

"Mrs. Hawke?" The door opened, a thirty-something doctor poking his head in, clipboard in hand.

Jo nodded, suddenly unable to speak past the lump in her throat. _Why hadn't she told Sinj? At least, if she had he'd be here._

_Well, maybe. They hadn't done so well at this last time…_ Fighting down the tears that threatened, she shoved the thought aside. She clenched her hands together, willing them to stop trembling, to keep herself from falling apart.

The man offered her his hand. "I'm Dr. Kelly," he said, giving her a warm smile. "Dr. Peters asked me to come and speak with you.

Bitterness rolled up in Jo. Under any other circumstances she would've like him, with his gentle smile and rakish brown fringe over one eye.

Pain sharp and stabbing welled up in her chest. _Not these though. _She raised her chin, wrapping her arms around herself. "He couldn't come himself?"

Surprised, the doctor arced one fine eyebrow in her direction. "He thought perhaps I'd be a better choice." A fine frown marred his forehead as he contemplated her. "Maybe, I'd better sit."

Jo shrugged, not meeting his eyes. _What was there really to say? Gee, I'm really sorry you lost your baby…_

Mitchell Kelly leaned back in his seat, eyeing his patient. "Are you happy about this pregnancy, Mrs. Hawke?"

Startled, Jo's gaze flew to his. "What difference does it make now?" she demanded, her voice raw with pain.

"A lot," Mitchell Kelly replied earnestly, leaning forward in his seat, elbows propped on his knees. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear enough, Mrs. Hawke. Dr. Peters asked me to speak to you because I'm the head of maternal-fetal medicine here at Valley Presbyterian."

Confusion reigned in Jo's eyes.

"Were you under the impression you had lost the pregnancy, Mrs. Hawke?"

Aching hope threatened to strangle her, even as she ruthlessly shoved it away. "That was my understanding," she choked out. "I asked the nurses, they wouldn't tell me anything. Only said I'd have to wait for Dr. Peters."

Kelly sighed heavily, his head dropping slightly forward as he did so. Almost instantly, he raised sober, dark blue eyes to meet hers. "We need to talk, Mrs. Hawke."

* * *

_Overhead the skies were grey, overcast, the water in front of him mirroring it as far as the eye could see. The sand shifted beneath his feet. Mike stared at it in confusion, a puzzled frown knitting his brow. _

_The edge of his vision caught sight of a woman far ahead. His head whipped up, the wind catching and clawing at his clothes. She was slender, svelte, long brown hair blowing in the breeze. She was also walking away from him._

"_Sarah," he breathed._

_She kept walking._

"_Sarah, wait!" the words burst from his lips, knowing he was about to lose her, realization surging through his body, knowing if he lost her now - he'd never find her again._

_Suddenly frantic, he lunged after her, starting to give chase. The sand shifted beneath his feet, tripping him. He staggered, stumbling, hitting the ground - hard. Pain slammed through his arm and elbow, snatching his breath away. Breath rasping through his lungs, he raised desperate eyes searching for her…_

* * *

"Mike!" a rough jostle yanked him awake, as Saint John's voice cut across his nerves. Worried hazel eyes cut his way, the face largely obscured by Airwolf's helmet, Sinj's fingers momentarily gripping his good arm. "Stay with me, Rivers," the words couched themselves as a command.

Mike grimaced. "We're going to have to talk, Hawke. You make it a habit to lose crew members mid-flight?"

Relief lightened Saint John's eyes, as his fingers tightened again on his friend's arm before grasping the collective again. "Only you I have to worry about. Darn Airforce pilots never were any good at taking orders."

A ghost of a grin tugged at Mike's lips beneath the helmet he wore. "Watch it Hawke," he murmured. "Last I checked my rank equaled yours."

Saint John grinned, glancing over his shoulder as Pierson gave co-ordinates for the carrier. "Yeah, but last I checked, I was the aircraft commander today."

Mike snorted, as if to say what he thought of that idea.

"How's the arm?" Saint John asked, tossing a glance his way as he divvied his attention between radar and his friend.

Mike hauled in a ragged breath, trying to flex his fingers. Anxiety lit the dark blue eyes as he did so, the next breath shuddering a little. "You want the good news or the bad?" he joked, strain cracking his voice.

Saint John's eyes narrowed. "Both."

Mike swallowed hard, forcing the words past his lips. "It's not hurting."

"And?" the older Hawke clipped.

Stricken blue eyes met his. "I can't feel my arm, Sinj."


	19. Chapter 19

Rain sluiced down, obscuring any sign of the carrier in front of him, leaving String flying strictly by instruments alone. Not such a bad thing - assuming of course, you had instruments, he thought humorlessly.

_Cait would kill him, if she could see him now._

Sorrow caused his chest to ache. He hadn't wanted to leave things like that with her. He knew he'd screwed up, whether he'd meant to or not.

_She was right, he should've told her._

_He knew he'd hurt her - badly._

_But how did you explain a marriage that wasn't? He'd never told Dom because he' d never known how. He was even less sure how to tell her._

_Tuyen has saved his life - first with the Vietnamese PRU and then later. She'd given him a reason to live, to believe his life had been worth something, to keep trying when he hadn't wanted to._

_Far too often he'd wondered, doubted, after he'd lost Saint John - knowing that it had been his fault. The missions had gotten riskier, the odds slimmer, hope fading as time went on._

_Darkly he acknowledged, he'd reached a point where he hadn't much cared._

_Scott's death had changed that. Holding Phuong that day in the army hospital, he'd realized there was no one but him. It'd been a terrifying thought. Suddenly, what he did mattered very much. Two lives had hinged on it._

_The ironic thing was - in saving Tuyen and the baby - he'd saved himself. She'd become a friend, an equal. He'd come to live for her letters, to know that home was still there, that what he and Sinj had been doing had some meaning, something beyond the daily bloodshed._

_And sometimes, just sometimes he'd wondered occasionally what it would be like to come home, to have a family, a normal life, somebody to love._

_He couldn't, of course. There'd been Sinj to find._

"Airwolf to Eagle 1," Saint John's disembodied voice cut across his thoughts. "Carrier's clear. Let's get this show on the road, String."

Hawke didn't answer.

"You there, String?" Saint John's voice sounded abruptly worried.

Snatching his thoughts back to the task at hand, Hawke swallowed hard. "Yeah, ready and waiting," he rasped, gripping the yoke a little tighter.

He didn't have the vaguest idea how to explain it to Caitlin though. He just knew he couldn't die leaving it like this.

* * *

"Engines full ahead," the captain's voice bit out the order.

"Aye, aye, sir."

Nodding, the captain acknowledged the response. "Wind, Davies?"

"Five knots, sir."

Captain John Spencer reached for the mike. He'd given Hawke every advantage he could think of. The rest was up to him. He only hoped the man was as good as he thought he was.

* * *

Bryce Polson slid his thumb across the blade, testing it. He'd waited a long time for this day…Too long, he thought, eyeing Hawke's brats huddling across the fire from him.

The blood trickled down his thumb.

He'd almost got caught back there at the hangar, he acknowledged. Thinking of the kid's aunt - he re-lived the fear in her eyes, remembering how she'd fought him, savoring the fierce joy he'd felt in shoving her to the ground - the solid thwack of her head hitting concrete, the gun lowering in his fist…knowing he was going to kill her.

A branch snapped on the other side of the fire, snatching his attention back to the present.

So close_… _he thought, rubbing his thumb up and down the blade, blood smearing its tip. So close… Irritation bubbled along his nerves.

Hawke wouldn't be so easy.

He'd first crossed paths with him five years ago working for Archangel. Hawke had killed his Sergei, his brother. He'd shot Hawke, and Hawke had nearly killed him.

He'd been ducking Archangel ever since.

This time he wouldn't miss, he'd make sure of it.

* * *

Kneeling, Caitlin eyed the muddy footprint on trail leading away from the cabin. Tuyen hovered behind her.

It made no sense. What would Bryce Polson want with Nicky and Amelia? Or better yet, Jo? She frowned, turning the name over and over in her head, trying to match it with some previous mission. It was no use…there were just too many of them, she thought with a groan.

She kneaded her forehead in frustration. The trail forked, turning rocky. Which way had they gone? Panic clawed at her. It didn't much matter who it was. The letter had made it obvious the kids were bait and he'd kill them when he was done.

Just like he'd tried to do with Jo.

"Cait!" Tuyen's voice hissed, from the left fork. "Come on!" Frantically, she motioned her to join her.

And then, she heard what the other woman did - the soft sounds of a child's muffled sobs.

* * *

"Shut her up!" the rasped order snarled across his ears. "Or I'll do it permanently!"

Seething, Nicky glared at the man. "Well, if you hadn't shoved her in the first place, she wouldn't be crying!" he yelled.

Polson slapped the knife down on the rock beside him. Thick fingers reached into his waistband dragging out an 8mm as he stood. He leveled the gun at Nicky's head.

_Okay, maybe that hadn't been the smartest thing to say._

The safety clicked off. "You've got ten seconds kid, to shut her up." The man grinned maniacally. "Hope she listens."

* * *

Stunned blue-green eyes took in the tableau before her. _Surely fate couldn't be so cruel as to kill her kids in front of her._

"No," she whispered. "I won't let it." The safety clicked off Hawke's .45.

…but the shot was too far, she thought in desperation, his finger already on the trigger. Even if she made it, he still might kill Nicky.

Crouched beside her, she could hear Tuyen's breath rasping through her lungs.

10...,9...,8...

_Think, Cait…think. _Time was running out.

7...,6...

Amelia only cried harder. Nicky's eyes were huge, fear glittering in their depths. She could see him hissing at his sister in desperation to shut up.

Polson grinned wider, leveling the gun.

"Wait!" she yelled, stepping around the bush.

Polson spun, bringing up the bore of the gun he held in line with her chest.

"Mommy!" Amelia shrieked, scrambling to break free.

Nicky lunged for her.

The gun wavered, the man's attention split. Abruptly, it swung back towards the kids. "Get back!" he yelled. "Or I'll shoot them both."

Sweat slicked Cait's hands, adrenaline pounding through her veins. Sheer terror clamped down on her lungs.

"No!" she screamed.

The gun swung back her way.

Nicky snatched Amelia down to the ground.

"It's me you want," she gasped, trying to inject some measure of reason into her voice. "I'd be a better bargaining chip." Carefully, she took a step forward, blue-green eyes locking with his, hands submissively raised. She didn't have to fake the tremble in them, now.

Reflexively, her finger tightened on the trigger. _Forgive me, String._

She took another step forward.

_Love you, always have. Always will. _She swallowed hard, edging one foot forward.

"No, mom!" Nicky screamed, his blue eyes wide, reading her intent.

The shot rang out.

Cait dropped, the sound loud, deafening, exploding in her ears.

_Everything she'd known it would be…_

…_except she couldn't be hearing the shot if she was dead…and she couldn't see how he could've missed._

She rolled, hitting the ground hard, wrenching her shoulder whilst she brought her gun up.

Polson staggered back his own shot going wild, a crimson stain spreading across his chest. His eyes were stunned, shocked and even as he fell, Cait knew he was dead.

She spun in confusion, Amelia's screams echoing in her ears as she tried to get the .45 up with numb fingers.

Eyes wide, her startled gaze met Tuyen's as she lowered the gun she held. There was no remorse there, only shadows and sorrow.

Stunned, Cait fought for words.

Memories and darkness receded from the other woman's gaze and she blinked dazedly. "You okay?" she questioned, in that soft melodic voice.

_It had an odd singsong quality to it. Why had she never noticed it before?_

Dumbly, Cait nodded, trying to push to her feet, her shoulder giving way beneath her.

Tuyen knelt beside her. The kids were already scrambling to their feet, crowding them, jostling, relief evident in their raised voices.

Caitlin winced, as they bumped against her.

Slender fingers closed around her arm, gentle but strong. "Let me help." The brown eyes were sincere.

"Why?" the younger woman croaked, shame flooding her. Tears filled her eyes, knowing she owed her life as well as Nicky's and Amelia's to her.

Tuyen shrugged, pulling her to her feet. "Because it is the right thing to do," she murmured, helping her up. Her eyes didn't meet Cait's.

The redhead frowned. _There was more to it than that._

She placed her hand on Tuyen's arm. "Please," she whispered.

She stilled for a moment, before glancing up at Nicky and Amelia's bickering. She smiled wistfully. "They are fine?"

"Yeah," Cait replied softly. "Thanks to you."

The kids scrambled ahead, eager to leave this place.

Tuyen watched them for a long moment in silence, thinking back to a day nearly twenty years ago, before handing back the gun she held to Cait.

Bemused, Caitlin took it - registering vaguely that it was Roper's. _How had she gotten it?_

Tuyen knelt, checking Polson, verifying he was in fact dead. When she rose, her voice was husky. "You know Hawke almost died in Vietnam. He very brave."

"Yes," Cait murmured, thinking of Hawke's explanation. "With the soldier. He told me. He also said you saved him," she agreed.

"No," Tuyen shook her head, ignoring Cait's compliment. "He very sick."

Cait's brows knit together in confusion. Hawke hadn't mentioned it. "When?"

"First, when Scott die. I not think he make it back to army camp." Sorrow shadowed her face. "Much death, many die," she said, her voice breaking.

Cait nodded numbly, feeling the lump in her throat. She could see that.

The next words caught her by surprise.

"Then after."

The redhead frowned, not understanding. "What do you mean, after?"

Dark brown eyes searched hers, as if evaluating, deciding what to share. Finally, she sighed.

"He saved Phuong and me, that day Cait. I don't know why or how. He brought me to the States, to Scott's family…gave me my life." Imploring, her voice broke as she begged her to understand. "He made me what I am."

Cait found herself nodding, though she wasn't exactly sure what she was agreeing to.

"But he was sick. Sick here -'' a small brown hand fisted against her breast as if to make her point. Her voice was sad. "When Hawke went back, I do not think he thought he'd come home again."

Pain slivered through Cait's chest as she absorbed her words.

Tuyen looked away, sorrow plainly etched on her face. "I did not think so either." She drew a harsh breath. "I was not sure he wanted to."

_Pain sliced through Cait at her words. Unfortunately, she didn't doubt her._

Tuyen drew a fortifying breath. "So, I decided I'd better learn to take care of myself, and I did." Slender fingers tucked a silky strand behind her ear, still not meeting the blue-green gaze.

Cait couldn't help herself, she had to know. Stumbling, the words slid out past her lips. "So, did you ever see him again?" she asked.

"No," Tuyen answered softly. "We wrote, and then I let him go."

A faint frown marred Caitlin's forehead. It seemed a terribly lonely way to live. "And you never married?" she queried.

"No. Not 'til now." Tuyen smiled, the brown eyes crinkling softly with her laughter. "What were the odds of me finding another Stringfellow Hawke?"

Cait's soft laugh was rueful. "So, why'd you let him go?"

Tuyen lifted one slim shoulder in a shrug, her eyes solemn. "He was never mine to keep."


	20. Chapter 20

Abruptly, the carrier came into view - a solid mass of battleship gray and steel. Well, that and about forty planes scattered about the far side of the deck.

_Great, assuming you didn't hit anything._

"You ready, String?" Saint John's voice cut across the cockpit radio.

_500 feet - _

"Ready as I'll ever be," Hawke replied, tightening his grip on the yoke. "Though if you ask nicely, I might still be willing to trade."

"Yeah, yeah," Sinj retorted, eyeing the instruments in front of him. "Just make sure you throttle back as soon as you hit that deck. That runway's a lot shorter than you think."

"You don't say…," Hawke tossed back wryly, getting ready to switch the radio over to the landing signal officer aboard the carrier. "Got any other last sage words of advice you'd like to impart?"

"Don't hit the planes," Saint John replied.

String rolled his eyes, hitting the switch.

Squinting at the lens array, he dumped another 200 pounds of fuel. Like it or not, he was committed now - there was no way the plane'd make it around for another pass.

The lens ahead of him flashed a slow green.

"Eagle One drop the pitch three degrees."

Muscles aching, he adjusted the yaw. The ball flashed a steady yellow, the wings leveling out.

"Ball point five," Paddles confirmed. "Bring her in, Eagle One."

Flaps down, the rear landing wheels slammed down to the deck, slinging Hawke forward. Wrenching back, he powered the engines to full reverse, the front wheel slamming down.

Deck slid across under the wheels at an alarming rate. String shoved the brake lever down.

Rubber squealed and screamed. Breathing hard, he fought to keep the plane from fishtailing. _100 feet. _She swung the other way, clearing another 100 feet of deck. Jets scattered across his right loomed closer, the ground crews running for cover.

_300 feet..., 400._

He was running out of deck - the grey depths of the ocean clearly visible beyond the edge of the carrier. Brakes slid and he forgot to breathe…

…and then she was stopping - rounded nose kissing the sky and front end pointing off the carrier.

If he'd had any air left to breathe, it'd have choked him. Loosening his death grip on the yoke, String slumped against the seat, eyes closed, remembering how to breathe.

Saint John's voice cut across his headset, staticy. "Had me worried, little brother."

Hawke heaved a shuddering breath, opening his eyes. "Really?" he rasped dryly.

"Don't think your flight insurance covers taking out Uncle Sam's F-14's."

String snorted. "Glad to know you care, Sinj."

The Lady's drone filled his ears, reminding him this mission wasn't done yet.

Saint John chuckled. "Glad you made it, String."

* * *

Eyeing the deck below him, Saint John let out a sigh of relief knowing his brother was okay. He slanted a quick glance Mike's way, not even sure the other had noticed. _One down, one to go._

Lowering the collective, the black gunship hovered as Pierson and Samuels reached for Mike, cushioning his body between them. And then they were settling with a hard thump in the darkness as the Lady touched down.

An air crew ran for the helicopter, medical crew behind them, even as they ducked rotors, tying her down.

Strong hands reached for Mike, passing him through the cockpit door and onto the waiting stretcher, Airwolf's landing lights lending a surreal feeling to the whole scene.

Numbed by exhaustion, Saint John Hawke dropped to the deck beneath Airwolf and watched them carry his best friend away, yelled commands echoing in his ears. He could only hope it was enough.

* * *

Frowning, Captain Gideon Taylor eyed his newest patient. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandages and splint around his arm. Shining a penlight in the man's eyes, he was none too pleased with the lack of responsiveness he got. "What'd they give him?" he demanded.

"Morphine, sir."

He scowled. The man looked like he'd been beaten. "Any word on how he got the arm broke?" he asked, cutting loose the splint.

The corpsman shook his head. "Just that it happened in Cuba."

"Cuba?" the doctor paused. "What was he doing in Cuba?"

The last of the bandage fell away, revealing sharp protruding bone and bruised and bloody fingers. Dusky toned, it was obvious the blood flow was compromised.

It was also apparent infection was already setting in.

_The morphine had been a good choice._

He grimaced, knowing the odds for his patient had just got a lot slimmer.

"Get me an x-ray and prep the O.R."

* * *

"1200 reports are in."

"And?" Archangel looked up at his assistant Lauren in the doorway.

"Hawke made it to the carrier. The T-3's a little worse for wear, but safe."

The white-clad spy let loose a breath he hadn't even been aware he was holding. "And the others?" he queried.

The deceptively fragile looking blonde glanced down at the reports in her hands. She didn't meet her boss' eyes.

Archangel frowned. "Lauren?"

"Airwolf is intact. Saint John made it to the carrier with her. She's low on fuel and armament, but otherwise okay. There were only three survivors of the plane's crew aboard.

_It was great news, except there should've been five survivors of the T-3's crew._

The spy nodded. "Who?"

"Pierson, Samuels and Rivers."

"Rivers is alive?" Michael echoed dumbly, staring at her. Shock gave way to joy as a surprised grin etched itself across his face. _Of all the problems Locke had left him, he was glad to still have that one around._

"But I thought…"

"The agent was mistaken," the blonde replied soberly. "It was Bartlett who was killed. He was wearing Rivers' jacket and insignia."

The single blue eye narrowed at her demeanor. _Losing Bartlett and Richardson was a tragedy, but she knew Rivers, unlike the other men. It wasn't the reaction he would've expected._

"So , what's the problem?" he asked softly.

Lauren raised troubled eyes to meet his. "Rivers is in surgery, sir. I think you'd better call Hawke's sister, Sarah.

* * *

Mitchell Kelly frowned. Shifting, the specialist sighed. _There was hope. There was also heartache. _"Do you want this baby?"

Pain arced through her chest as Jo stared at him. _Of course, she had wanted this baby…it was hers, hers and Sinj's, a product of their love - probably their only chance at ever having another child. _Guilt ate at her conscience, demanding truth…reminding her she hadn't told him. _Why not? Why had she waited?_

"Yes," she whispered, through numb lips, fighting back tears. "Of course."

The next question caught her unawares, as he leaned forward. "Do you get along with your husband, Mrs. Hawke?"

Tangled thoughts jumbled together, stumbling over one another as memories crowded in - Saint John and her yelling and fighting in the hangar; the salty, sweet taste of his kiss when they made up; the intimate caress of his big hand gently cradling her belly, swollen with his child; the agony of losing Bella…him nearly dying…

The doctor shoved to his feet, towering above her. "How exactly did you get hurt?" he demanded.

Reality slammed into her, pain clawing at her gut, anger rising in her chest, hot and fierce. _They thought Sinj had done this? Sinj who would rather cut off his arm than hurt her?_

"No!" she flared. "You're wrong, dead wrong! My husband did **not** do this! He wouldn't…he **couldn't**!"

Mitchell grimaced. He hoped not, the concussion on the MRI had been ugly, but it still didn't explain the broken ribs. Still, as a doctor he needed to know what he was working with...

"And where is your husband, Mrs. Hawke?"

Panic flared momentarily. _Why wasn't Sinj here? Where was he?_

Heart pounding, she quelled it. Squaring her shoulders, she raised her chin and stared him directly in the face. "I don't know. He works for the government. Sometimes he's away for weeks at a time."

The doctor's eyes narrowed accessingly. He wasn't sure he believed her, but her defense of her husband seemed heartfelt.

"I'm not going to get an explanation as to how this happened, am I?" he sighed.

Troubled blue eyes met his. "I don't have one to give. Just know that it wasn't Saint John."

Heaven help him, he believed her. There wasn't one good reason to do so, but he did.

Heaving a wary breath, he lowered himself back into the chair at her bedside. He could only pray she was right, and hope the husband lived up to the obvious faith she had in him.

_They'd both be needing it._

"Okay," he said soberly. "We'll play this your way." He reached for the chart beside her, scooting his chair closer.

Uneasily, Jo waited, not even sure what to pray for. _Was it possible…?_

"The good news is the fetus seems to have somehow survived your _fall _- thus far. Which is pretty remarkable, considering the damage done to that side and the bruising."

Hope ached in her chest, so hard it hurt to breathe.

She nodded - trying to hang on to the survive part and ignore the quell of fear she felt. "But…" she prompted.

He flipped through the charts, pointing out an ultrasound that looked like one of Airwolf's thermal scans. "The bad news is, there's been some damage to the placenta."

Jo licked suddenly dry lips. "And that means?"

His eyes met hers. "It's strictly a cross your fingers situation. There's some damage, but so far he or she appears to be holding their own. It's possible, though not likely, the placenta may heal on its own. It's also possible the damage could cause the placenta to separate from the uterine wall, causing a hemorrhage and putting your life and the baby's at risk."

She swallowed, closing her eyes. _Well, you certainly couldn't accuse him of painting too rosy a picture, or not telling the downside._

"What's the likely outcome?" she whispered, still not opening her eyes.

She felt his fingers wrap around hers, lending her strength. "Odds are the placenta will not be able to support the baby throughout a normal pregnancy. Best case scenario the baby will be premature, worst case you're at a much greater chance of stillbirth."

Jo's fingers spasmed as he let go, rising to his feet. She tried to focus on the positive. "How premature?"

Turning away, his shoulders hunched. "There's no way of knowing. Medically, the advice would be to terminate."

The crushing weight on her chest intensified and her fingers knotted in the sheets. Anguished, she prayed for strength, as tears ran down her face. _Where was Sinj anyway?_

Giving a soul-deep sigh, the doctor turned to go. "I realize it's a lot for you to take in. I have rounds I have to do. I'll be back later and we'll talk. Think about it, talk to your husband."

Jo fought to breath._ Talk to her husband? She didn't even know where her husband was…_

She seized the one weak spot she sensed. _It was all she had. All she might ever have if he walked out that door. _

Desperately, she forced the words out. "And you," she demanded, "what would you do?"

Pinioned, Mitchell Kelly froze, his hand on the door - his thoughts flying a thousand different directions. _The babies he'd saved, the ones he couldn't, the ones he'd thought would make it and didn't. And finally, the twenty-three week old he'd held in his hands, a year ago - watching her draw her last breath, and taking his heart with it - his daughter._

He fought the lump in his throat, hunting for his professional demeanor. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hawke, but I can't give you personal advice."

He made the mistake of looking back.

Jo raised a trembling chin to meet his gaze, crystalline tears dripping down her cheeks. "I'm not asking you for advice," she retorted. "I'm asking what you'd do."

Kelly winced, thinking of his daughter, Meagan - tiny fingers, tiny toes, eyes the color of a perfect summer's day. _Would he do it any differently? He could still feel the weight of her miniscule body in his hands - barely there, and everything in the world he had. Would he trade the nine days he'd had with her for anything?_

He swallowed hard. _No. Never in a million years._

He thought of all the lives he could save, those he might help, that his answer might cost him his job, his career. And in the end, it didn't matter.

He couldn't deny the truth. _He'd have fought to keep her to his last breath. _

His hand dropping from the door, Kelly looked at her, the anguish in his blue eyes as clear as her own. He sat back down, knowing his words could cost her her life.

His voice cracked. "I'd fight."


	21. Chapter 21

Wearily, String sprawled across the bench in the gangway watching his brother pace. Any minute, he expected saint John to wear a hole through the two inch thick steel plating. Finally, he could take it no more.

"Take a seat Sinj, before you pace a hole through the hull. The captain will never let us off if you sink his ship."

Hazel eyes met his in startled surprise. "Wha…?"

String indicated the path he was wearing.

"Oh, …yeah." Saint John had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "Sorry."

His brother jerked his head towards the operating room just beyond the doors where they waited. "They'll let us know, Sinj. You did the best you could by Mike."

The rangy pilot slumped forward, his head in his hands. "Yeah, I know." He didn't look particularly consoled.

String tried again. He knew his brother'd been down to the payphones. "Any word from Jo?"

Saint John raked a hand down his face tiredly. "No," he said. "Hospital won't release any info - just that she's stable. Tried Cait at the hangar, didn't get any answer there."

Hawke raised an eyebrow, momentarily surprised, before he squelched it. With them gone, Jo hurt, and the business to run, Cait could be anywhere…

_…assuming of course, she was still talking to him. It wouldn't have been too hard to figure out a call from the carrier was either him or Sinj._

He bit back a groan, realizing he was getting as bad as Sinj.

"Could always try stealing an F-14," he teased, trying for humor. "Hear they make pretty good time."

His brother chuckled. "Yeah, right. Think I'll wait on the Lady. I've seen your carrier landings. You're crazy if you think I'm flying anywhere with you anytime soon."

String grinned, hunting for a snappy comeback.

The door behind them opened, and both men were on their feet in an instant.

A petite nurse, of maybe 5'3" looked up at the two men in unfamiliar flight suits. She would've been pretty except for the smudges of weariness on her face.

Still in surgery scrubs, she tugged the face mask she wore down. "I take it you're Major Rivers' friends?"

Hawke nodded.

The answer, though lacking proper military protocol seemed to satisfy her. "Major Rivers is out of surgery. Captain Taylor says you should be able to see him in about fifteen minutes."

She started to turn to go.

"Wait," Saint John rasped. "How is he?"

She hesitated, knowing her patient was behind her - maybe not lucid, but awake.

"Please…"

Reaching behind her, she pulled the door closed. "Captain Taylor has set the bone and given him antibiotics and an iv for the pain and infection. It's too soon to tell what kind of nerve damage there is."

Saint John frowned. "But he'll be okay?"

The brown eyes were cautious. She'd been a part of the team that had retrieved Rivers earlier, and it didn't take a lot to guess he'd probably originally been one of the pilots of the two aircraft.

Offhand, she'd have guessed the T-3, after the way it'd landed with more spit than polish on the deck.

It explained a lot, especially considering the shape the plane was in, and her patient.

"Captain Taylor is hopeful we can save the arm," she said softly. "I think it's safe to say though, Major Rivers days of flying fighter jets are over."

Saint John's eyes met String's. A muscle in the lean jaw clenched. Neither one said anything.

Watching them, the nurse heaved a harsh sigh. She'd figured as much. "I'll be back to collect you in ten. Plan on keeping it brief. I don't want my patient upset."

She turned back, closing the heavy steel door behind her.

Saint John cursed, swinging away from Hawke.

String's reaction was more sanguine. He'd spent too many years battling the younger pilot for top spot for it to be anything else. "She doesn't know Mike, Sinj."

Saint John paused worriedly. He raked a frustrated hand through his hair. "You think?"

"I know," String replied confidently, slapping him on the shoulder. _He only hoped he was right._

* * *

Eyes fluttering shut, Amelia caught herself on the edge of sleep. She raised her head from the pillow, peering into the darkness, trying to decide if her brother was asleep. "Nicky?" she hissed.

Tiredly, he flopped over. "Go to sleep, Amelia," he muttered. "It's over. Mom and Tuyen handled the bad guy. We're safe."

Sheets rustled. For a heartbeat, he thought it'd worked. A minute later, a plaintive voice from across the room assured him it hadn't.

"Is daddy coming home?"

_Not when, but is he…_

_Was he?_ For a long minute, he was silent, fear and unease gnawing at his stomach. Sam's dad had left and he'd never seen him again. He fought the urge to burrow under the blankets and cover his head. _Was he?_

Nicky swallowed hard, remembering the anguish on his dad's face when he'd left the hospital to go after Mike, finally recognizing the emotions written there.

_He'd been scared. He'd been sad. But most of all he loved them._

A weight lifted from his chest and he scooted over, hearing the soft pad of 'Melia's bare feet as she drug her quilt across the floor. Scrunching over, he made room as she clambered up onto the bed beside him.

"Yeah, 'Melia," he promised quietly. "He always comes back."

* * *

Groaning, Mike blinked, the sound of hushed voices awakening him. His hearing might not be as keen as Hawke's - but at the moment a whisper was like a jackhammer in his head.

Pain radiated from his shoulder down as he tried to shift, a sharp pang running up from where the iv pricked the skin. Okay, maybe here was good enough. Wearily, he closed his eyes.

"…nerve damage…too soon to say how much…"

Blearily, he recognized the voices - Saint John's husky whisper and String's quiet rasp, tempered by a softer feminine one. Tension clearly radiated in both.

He frowned, fighting the painkillers.

Something was wrong. They were worried.

He focused harder, holding his breath, struggling to pick out the words. A moment later, he wished he hadn't - flopping back white-faced and exhausted against the sheets, her words ringing in his ears.

_Screw her, she was wrong._

Scowling, he fought to flex the fingers of his right hand, ripping free the bandages, willing them to move.

Nothing.

Stubbornly, he fought harder, wincing in pain as he pulled the iv loose, knowing if he didn't lick this, his days of flying the Lady were over.

The barest movement from his pinky caught his eye.

So were his hopes of landing Sarah…

_Oh, hell._


	22. Chapter 22

The storm rolled in, heavy grey clouds and driving rain. Tied down and secure, Airwolf rode it out above decks, the T-3 below in the hopes something of her surveillance mission could be salvaged.

It remained to be seen. The price had been high - two lives and almost a third, Hawke thought. Arms crossed and seated in a chair at the end of the bed, feet propped up, String watched his brother and Mike through half-closed lids.

Mike still had a long way to go. He should know - he'd listened to the nurse raise Cain with him last night over the ratted bandages and torn loose iv.

It'd nearly taken an act of Congress to get him and Saint John in here after that. Quite frankly, the only reason he thought they were in here at all, was she didn't trust her patient to be left on his own.

_She had good reason. Rivers was nearly as bad as he and Saint John. He gave a wry half-grin. Poor Sarah, if only she knew what she'd let herself in for there._

Absently, he recognized the thaw in his attitude realizing the irony at the same time. He'd known Mike ten years - trusted him with his life countless times - maybe it was time he trusted him with his sister.

_Maybe it was time he cut him some slack._

He was a good man, an honest man. And while he was something of a flirt, he definitely seemed to love Sarah. She was a grown woman now, maybe it was time he started treating her like it.

It wasn't like he hadn't made mistakes along the way. He sighed. The whole mess with Tuyen was plain enough evidence of that.

He glanced up as Saint John's laughter rang out and Mike cracked a weary smile. _He could only hope, it wasn't too late for all three of them with the women in their lives._

* * *

Hawke's feet thudded to the floor, riveting two pairs of eyes to him instantly.

He shoved to his feet. "I need some air," he muttered, not meeting their eyes. Wordlessly, he stalked out the door.

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Should I ask?"

Frowning slightly, Saint John shook his head. "Who knows?" he shrugged. "This is String we're talking about."

Shifting painfully, Mike acknowledged the truth of that statement. He might like Hawke, wouldn't rather have anybody else back him in a firefight, but he would never hazard a guess what went on inside that head of his.

_Just as well. What he had to say was between him and Saint John anyway, and he could do without Hawke taking his head off - well-intentioned, or not._

_You didn't grow up in a household of women and not get a clue. He'd been pretty sure Josephine Santini Hawke was pregnant before he'd left on that mission for Michael. He'd also been pretty sure she hadn't said anything to Saint John. What he wasn't sure of, was why?_

Beside him, Saint John gave a weary sigh, raking one large hand through already tousled hair. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

Mike frowned, knowing he had to say something. He just wasn't sure what. "Sinj?"

"Yeah?" the older pilot replied absently.

"Did you ever get a chance to talk to Jo before you headed out here?"

"No," he rubbed his face tiredly. "There was that whole mess at the hangar." He'd briefly brought Mike up to speed about Jo getting hurt, earlier when string had gone for coffee.

He wasn't even sure where to begin about the rest.

"So, she didn't say anything?" Rivers queried.

Something about Mike's question his attention. "No." Hazel eyes regarded him somewhat warily. "Is there something I should know?"

Rivers grimaced, clearly uncomfortable. _If he was wrong…oh, heck if he was right…_

Saint John scowled, watching the emotions play across Rivers' face. Whatever it was, he wasn't joking. A faint clutch of unease clutched at his gut.

"Spit it out, Mike," he rasped hoarsely.

Dark blue eyes met his momentarily before glancing away. "Anything seem a little off about Jo lately? Outta sorts, if you know what I mean?"

Guiltily, Saint John thought back. He'd been up to his eyeballs with the business when they'd thought String was dead, and then afterwards there'd been the destruction at Redstar, thanks to Van der Berg…

…_And, his conscience snarled at him - the real reason he'd tried burying himself in work once he'd found out String was okay…_

…_the anniversary of Bella's death._

The thought was like a raw wound, even after all this time, suddenly jabbed by a sharp stick.

It ached. It took his breath away.

He winced sadly, guiltily, sagging, knowing he wanted to forget.

_What kind of man did that make him anyway?_

Mike's gaze was sympathetic, he too remembered all too well. "Sinj," he muttered, "that's not what I'm talking about." _Though, he thought, maybe it played into it._

"Then what?" Sinj rasped.

Mike huffed a sigh. "Was Jo acting strange?"

"Strange, how so?" Saint John demanded. Thinking back, there'd been a lot of things off, but then it'd been a rough couple months all around.

It didn't let him off the hook though. He should've been paying more attention. He knew she hadn't been sleeping, hadn't felt well. Heck, she'd been to the doctor the morning of the accident.

"She's been stressed, Mike. We all have."

"What if it's not stress?" Mike demanded. He'd seen how she'd gone running when he'd brought in sushi last week to share for lunch. He'd also covered for her a couple times when Sinj had had charters out of town, and she'd said she had a doctor appointment.

He'd also noticed the sudden aversion to doughnuts and coffee she'd developed. Heck, the percolator had been MIA for a week and she hadn't batted an eyelid. For a caffeine-addict like Jo, that alone was odd.

'_Course, Saint John who rarely drank the stuff probably wouldn't have noticed._

Saint John frowned. Mike was right. Jo hadn't been her usual self - even all things considered. He wondered vaguely if he should've said something to her about Bella. "She say something to you?"

"No."

Sudden fear clutched at his stomach, memories rushing back. Jo's mother had died of cancer when she was small. He could remember going to see her with Dom when she was dying. She'd been roughly the age Jo was now.

"You think she's sick?" he rasped, worry lines bracketing his mouth.

Mike swallowed, his stomach rebelling against the painkillers and the action of the ship. He hoped he wasn't about to sound the death knell on his friend's marriage. "No, Sinj. I think she's pregnant and she didn't tell you."

* * *

Hawke paced the narrow confines of Vulture's Row. Aptly named, it gave him a bird's eye view of the flight deck below.

It also gave him a pretty good view of the Lady. Unfortunately, she was starting to attract attention.

He shivered, the damp salt spray stinging his eyes. The weather was lifting, a flight window starting to open. Archangel had been right. He needed to get her off deck and out of sight.

Fueled, she'd flown in worse, he thought rolling his shoulders stiffly. There was no way Mike was ready for a six hour flight home. _Either he or Sinj would have to stay_.

Stepping back, he leaned against the rail, the wind rifling his hair as he squinted at the distant grey horizon, his thoughts on Cait and Jo. _The only question was which one…_

* * *

Stunned, Saint John stared at his friend, wondering if he should be worrying about his sanity. Equal measures of hope and pain clawed at his chest. "You what?" he managed, with a shaky laugh. "Mike, that's crazy."

Rivers turned his own storm-tossed glare on him. "Maybe," he conceded. He sure didn't look like he was joking. "But I'm willing to bet money I'm right."

Irritation flared in Saint John's eyes. "Alright, Mike," he snapped, trying to ignore the pain he felt. "I'll bite. Why?"

His friend grimaced_. How did you explain gut instinct? _

"I don't know, Sinj," he sighed. "Maybe because of Bella, maybe because you push so hard, maybe she's afraid. How the heck would I know? She's your wife."

Saint John ran a shaking hand over his face. "Look, Mike," he said, trying to remind himself, it was probably the drugs talking, "she wouldn't do that."

Troubled blue eyes met his. "Are you sure, Sinj? Are you absolutely, beyond a doubt sure?"

Saint John frowned at him. _He looked with it, alert, coherent. Even Rivers for all his joking around, wouldn't kid about this. _A trickle of unease flickered in his chest.

_Was he? Was he absolutely certain?_

_No._

Despair bowed his shoulders. Much as he hated admitting it, Bella's death had changed both of them - and not necessarily for the better.

Before when they'd fought, there'd always been the making up to look forward to. Now when they fought, he wondered what it'd take to lose her.

He cradled his head in his hands, his heart heavy. "No, Mike," he muttered. "I'm not sure. I'm not sure of much of anything anymore."

He knew he loved her. He knew he didn't want to live without her in his life. He didn't know if he could forgive her though, if what Mike said was true and she terminated his baby and didn't even tell him.

Panic flared and he shoved to his feet, restless edgy, pacing the floor. Worriedly, he raked a hand down a stubbled chin. "So, what am I supposed to do, Mike?" he demanded.

Wincing, Rivers shoved himself up in the bed, wishing there was a better way to say what had to be said.

_He knew all too well, Saint John had mourned Bella, had taken her death hard._

_He also knew it'd created almost as many problems for him and Jo, as losing their daughter had._

"You start with hauling your butt home." Mike's tone was harsh, unyielding.

The bitten off words caught Saint John by surprise. He was stunned at how much they hurt.

"Easier said than done," he muttered. The broad shoulders sagged.

Mike's sigh was harsh. "Yeah, maybe so, Sinj, but the truth of the matter is you weren't there for her when Bella died and she wasn't there for you. Both of you were so wrapped up in your own grief, there was no room for anybody else's."

Frustrated, the rangy blonde started to protest, only to have Mike cut him off. "You cut each other out when you needed each other most. It almost cost you your marriage."

Saint John didn't say anything, pain lines bracketing his mouth. He remembered all too clearly what it'd been like.

Mike continued. "All I'm saying is you'd sure as hell better be there for her now. You lose her this time, you'll lose your marriage and your kid."

Sober blue eyes met his.

"There won't be any going back."


	23. Chapter 23

Frozen, Stringfellow Hawke hesitated, his hand on the door. Keen ears had picked up the heated conversation between Rivers and his brother, in the otherwise empty room making him an unwilling participant.

His mind reeled, trying to take in the information. _Jo was pregnant, and she hadn't told Saint John… -_ it explained a lot, he thought, the pieces of the last three weeks falling into place_._

It explained why she'd been ducking him and Cait. He'd known she hadn't felt well, had been worried about something.

_He hadn't expected that, though._

Sudden joy and excitement for Saint John filled his heart. He'd known what Bella had meant to him, how much he'd wanted a family of his own.

It was just as abruptly followed by a clench of anxiety in his gut. It didn't bode well, Jo hadn't told him. Old feelings of betrayal and resentment roiled in his stomach. He remembered what losing Bella, what losing her, had done to Sinj.

_Why? _he wondered. _Why wouldn't she have told Saint John? _Jaw tight, he tried to tell himself she must have had a good reason, even if he couldn't see it.

_But what?_

He tilted his head back praying for wisdom, eyes closing on a soul-deep sigh.

_It seemed the Lady had her pilot home, and it wasn't him. He could only hope, he still had something to come home to when it was his turn._

* * *

Bemused, Caitlin stared at Tuyen as the other woman packed her bags. They'd barely made it back to the cabin, when she'd announced her intention to go.

At the time, she hadn't thought much of it, her thoughts firmly entrenched on getting the kids settled in. Now, two hours later, it seemed she was making good on her words.

_What surprised Cait was the sorrow she felt at seeing her go._

The clock upstairs chimed the hour, reminding her how late it really was. She tried again. "Tuyen, stop this craziness! There's no need for you to go! Stay 'til Hawke gets back…"

Glancing over at her, the Vietnamese woman kept packing. She reached over for a sweater on the nightstand.

Exasperated, the redhead threw her hands up. "At least stay 'til morning, then! It's almost midnight, for Pete's sake!"

Slender hands stilled for a moment, as obsidian eyes raised to meet hers. "Marella will fly me out. It is time for me to go. I have created enough problems between you and Hawke. I see that now." Tears glittered on the dark lashes. "It was not my intention…"

Guiltily, Caitlin flushed. _She knew that…now._

A sharp peal sounded from the satellite phone, cutting across her thoughts. She jumped in surprise, fear jangling her nerves. News from Redstar at this hour was never good in her experience.

"Hold that thought," she said breathlessly, her throat tight. "I'll be back."

Worriedly, she raced into the over room.

Tuyen followed.

Anxiously, she snatched the receiver up. "Yes?"

It was Marella on the line. "Saint John and Airwolf are on their way back. Jo's awake."

Dumbly Cait nodded, relief flooding through her body. She'd been so worried about everything else, she hadn't even thought of Jo once that afternoon. "What about Hawke?" she asked, glancing up at Tuyen.

There was a long pause. "They found Mike, Caitlin. He's not doing so hot. There's a good chance he may lose his arm."

Tears filled her eyes and she swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat.

Tuyen reached for her hand.

"Does Sarah know?" she whispered.

"We've called her," Marella answered. "Hawke decided to stay with him."

Caitlin shoved away the sense of disappointment, she felt. _Mike needed him more than she did at the moment, she told herself._

Tears tracked down her pale, freckled cheeks. "Any idea when they'll be back?" she asked, preparing herself for the worst.

Marella's voice was soft, sympathetic. "They'll come out together on a C-130 medical transport. It's due to leave for Los Angeles later this morning. I'll let you know when I have a better timetable."

The redhead nodded numbly, realizing her hand was starting to shake. "Thanks, Marella," she whispered.

Michael's wife sighed. "Try to get some rest, Cait. It's going to be a long day."

"Yeah," Caitlin murmured, choking back a sob and setting down the satellite phone, her thoughts tangled with worries for Mike and Sarah, Jo and Sinj, not to mention Hawke and herself.

_What about Mike? If he lost his arm, he'd lose everything he'd worked so hard for for so many years. He'd lose his job, his ability to fly, would he lose Sarah as well? Or Jo and Sinj? The new life that should've brought them happiness hung precariously in the balance. Who knew where it left their marriage. And Hawke…_

Tuyen's hands gripped hers, worry knitting her fine brows. "They are okay?" she demanded, her dark eyes uneasily searching Cait's.

Blue-green eyes filled with tears. "I hope so," she choked, suddenly overwhelmed. _What if String had died saving Mike? Would she have wanted her last words to him to have been ones of anger?_

_She'd never had anything to fear from Tuyen. Her worst fault was String had loved life enough, that he'd risked his to save hers. Could she hate him for that? Or her?_

_Fleetingly, she thought of Polson, and him holding the kids at gunpoint in the woods. She had no doubt, he would've killed them, just as he would've happily killed her. Would've done his best to kill String…_

She'd more than repaid her debt.

Caitlin was sobbing in earnest now. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She could've asked for no better friend than the one Hawke had given her. "I'm sorry…"

Dark brown eyes frowned in confusion as Tuyen took in the redhead's very obvious grief. She doubted she would ever understand the complexities of these Americans. "It does not matter," she whispered firmly, slender brown arms pulling Cait into a comforting hug against her shoulder. Worriedly, she stroked the younger woman's hair, her own thoughts on darker days. "We will wait for Hawke, together."

* * *

Squinting, Stringfellow Hawke reached down, picking up the duffel the captain of the ship had issued him. Dressed in a borrowed flight suit, it contained the rather distinctive pale grey Airwolf suit, he usually wore. He figured he'd raise a lot less eyebrows this way.

_He hoped. _

Mike stirred on the gurney next to him. They'd heavily sedated the pilot for the trip back, but he figured 7 ½ hours was more than enough time for him to shake off the effects of the drug. At least, he'd miss the take-off, he thought, warily eyeing the end of the carrier - his own precipitous landing far too fresh in his mind for his own liking.

"Ready, Captain Hawke?" a young Ensign queried, saluting him.

Returning the salute, he gave a rueful half-grin. "Would it matter if I said no?" he asked.

The baby-faced Ensign smirked. "No, sir."

Hawke rolled his eyes. "Well then," he said dryly, "let's get this show on the road."

Sounds like a plan, sir." The younger officer indicated Hawke should precede him up the fantail of the plane.

String hesitated, casting a quick glance Mike's way as he did so.

The Ensign caught it, correctly interpreting his concern. "We'll see Major Rivers aboard just as soon as you are settled, sir."

Hawke nodded and proceeded up the ramp in silence, the faintest of scowls on his forehead. It was going to be a long trip home.

* * *

Saint John paced the hospital corridor, heavy footsteps echoing hollowly down the tiled floor.

Stopping at the nurse's station, he'd made it halfway down the hall when he spotted security. Eyeing Michael's white-clad agent posted outside the door, he snorted. Guess he didn't have to guess too hard which one was Jo's. He lengthened his stride.

The harried-looking nurse he'd just left looked up behind him, catching the eye of a thirty-something doctor with brown fringe as he stepped out of one of the patient's rooms.

Furiously, she pointed down the hall at her retreating visitor's back.

Mitchell Kelly swung, taking in the solidly built, rangy blonde heading down the hall. He arched an eyebrow - it seemed the wandering government agent husband had come home, just as Jo Santini Hawke had said he would.

"Sir!" he called.

There was no reaction as the man kept walking.

Kelly tried again. "Sir!" he called, this time picking up his pace down the wide corridor hall. It made no difference.

"Mr. Hawke!" Gripping his clipboard, he broke into a loose-limbed trot.

Saint John spun warily at the sound of his name.

The doctor skidded to a halt beside him. "We need to talk."


	24. Chapter 24

Dumbstruck, Saint John Hawke sank onto the chair outside his wife's room, the doctor's words still ringing in his ears. Blinking back tears, he leaned his head back against the wall, passing a weary hand over his eyes.

He'd barely found out he was going to be a father again, when he found out he might not only lose this baby, but Jo as well.

* * *

Stretching, String glanced over at Mike, his own unease making a lousy flight companion. Mike on the other hand didn't seem to much mind - so far he'd slept through the first three hours of the flight.

It was a feat Hawke envied him - though he wasn't sure how much longer the other man'd be able to keep it up.

He grimaced as the plane hit another pocket of air turbulence and Mike stirred, muttering.

Better the doctor had knocked them both out, he thought grimly. Hitching a ride in the back of a C-130 could hardly be called traveling in style in the best of times.

As it was, he was beginning to think that half a grapefruit he'd downed at breakfast was a serious mistake.

* * *

Marella frowned, looking down at the 1300 action reports. It seemed Airwolf had made it safely home, taking advantage of a window in the weather.

The C-130 trailing her hadn't been so lucky. She was heading squarely into the storm Airwolf had just ducked - a storm that had just increased in strength fivefold.

_Maybe it was time to call Cait._

* * *

Hand raised, Saint John hesitated outside the hospital room door. Somehow, it seemed innocuous he should have to knock to announce himself to the woman he'd shared his soul with, created a baby with. He corrected himself - created two babies with…

He gave a soul-deep sigh, pushing open the door. _Screw protocol, he thought, last he checked she was still his wife._

Impatiently, he stepped in, only to draw up short when he realized she was asleep. Uncomfortably, he paused, uneasily shifting his weight from one foot to another.

Sunlight streamed through the open window, reflecting in the crystal flower vase on the window sill and refracting on the walls. Fingers of it caught in the honeyed strands strewn across the pillowcase and warmed it like a lover's caress.

He swallowed hard, struck again by how beautiful she was, even after all these years. As beautiful as the first time he'd laid eyes on her at Dom's hangar, just back from college.

He set the bag he carried down, with a soft thump on the table beside him.

She stirred, muttering and he stilled sliding into the seat next to her. Up close, he could see the violet smudges under her eyes and the bruising where the iv snaked around her wrist.

And if he held his head just so, he could almost make out the soft, barely there swell to her belly where their child resided. He fought the urge to gently cradle it with one large hand and settled for caressing her fingers with his thumb.

_His. For as long as God let him keep them. _He was startled at the possessiveness of the thought. He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

"Sinj?" Jo's voice husky and bemused with sleep whispered. Pure, unadulterated joy filled her gaze for a moment and he soaked it in. "What're you doing here?"

Hazel grey eyes met hers. "Waiting for you to wake up, beautiful." His fingers tangled in hers.

He could tell the moment she really woke up, sense the wariness that crept into her blue eyes. She pulled her fingers from his, as she struggled to push up in the bed.

"You know?" she asked hoarsely, looking everywhere but at him.

"Yeah," he replied, his voice sober. "What I don't know yet is why, Jo." His voice cracked. "You want to enlighten me?"

Anxiously, she twisted the rings on her left hand, not meeting his eyes. Her cheeks flushed guiltily. She didn't answer.

Hurt clenched at Saint John's chest, pain welling up. "Dammit, Jo, answer me!" he snarled. "Were you planning on terminating it? Killing our baby? I know you said you didn't want another, but…" furiously, his voice raised in pitch.

"No! Yes! I don't know Saint John!" Jo's own temper flared as her emotions surged. "Mostly I just couldn't believe I was pregnant again! When I said I didn't want another after Bella, I meant it! Losing her hurt too much..."

Saint John grimaced, knowing all too well what losing Bella'd been like. She might have been his daughter, but it'd been Jo who'd carried her, and nursed her. Jo who'd lost her that fateful day at the beach. He tried to remember that.

"And now?" he asked harshly, his throat tight.

Jo's voice dropped several notches. He had to strain to hear the words.

Her fingers clenched tightly in her lap, again twisting the rings. Her voice implored him to understand. "It's not like we were trying, Sinj," she whispered. "I was terrified."

He frowned. "Terrified of what?"

"Terrified of being pregnant, of losing this baby." She gave a hiccupping sob. "After all,... I lost Bella. What makes me think I could do any better this time around?"

Saint John winced. "Jo…"

She gave him a wistful smile, that didn't reach all the way to her eyes.

He thought it was maybe the saddest thing he'd ever seen, his heart flopping over.

Her fingers twisted in the sheets. "I guess I thought if I pretended I wasn't, then it wouldn't hurt so much if I lost it. If I denied it, then I couldn't jinx it."

She looked up, meeting his gaze. "I guess I was wrong, huh? Now that I may lose this child, I find I want it more than my next breath, and I know that you do. Denying it doesn't change that." She sighed as a fat tear slid down her cheek. "I'm sorry, Sinj. What I did was wrong and I know I hurt you. Worse, I may have taken your only chance to know your son or daughter."

Saint John took a shuddering breath, trying to figure out the complexities that made up his wife.

Evidently, they had a lot further to go than he'd thought. He'd wanted to kill her when Mike had told him, realized all the little things he should've caught and didn't…

Then when the doctor had told him the news, all he could think of was losing her. Losing the baby would be horrible, losing her might kill him.

When the doctor had told him the news of her wanting to keep the baby, he hadn't been sure he believed him.

He did now. And it scared him spitless…

"You sure you want to do this?" he asked, hazel eyes worriedly searching her face.

Jo didn't have to ask what "this" was. She knew.

She stopped twisting the rings on her fingers and raised her chin. The pale lips trembled, but there was husky determination in the words. "Yeah, Sinj. I'm sure. There's been a lot of things I've done wrong between you and I. This isn't one of them."

Saint John nodded, closing his eyes for a moment on a deep breath, trying to still the frantic pounding of his heart. _It wasn't working._

He reached over, catching her fingers in his. "You're something else, Jo Santini Hawke," he rasped. "You know that?"

She gave him a watery grin. "Think somebody might've told me that a time or two. Not so sure they meant it as a compliment though."

One side of his mouth hiked into a lopsided smile. His thumb rubbed against hers.

He watched her hand curve subconsciously, protectively around her stomach.

Saint John saw it and swallowed. _How many times had she done that when she was pregnant with Bella?_

"He's a Hawke, Jo," he whispered hoarsely, tightening his hand on hers. "He's a fighter."

Suddenly, self-conscious she flushed, curling her fingers deep into her palm, pulling away from him.

She nodded.

Saint John sobered, looking at her. _If she'd been terrified before, he didn't even want to think what she must be now. _

He reached for her chin, knowing he had to make her understand.

"Jo," he murmured, his voice choking. Embarrassed, he soldiered on. "I want our son, but even if for some reason he doesn't make it, I want you to know I love you, more than life itself. I'll always love you."

His fingers tightened slightly on her chin, even as his thumb slid across her cheek. "We're in this together, sweetheart. No matter what happens, okay?"

She nodded, her eyes full of tears. She couldn't have spoken if her life depended on it.

Hazel eyes caught hers. "No more running," Saint John whispered. "Promise?"

Her fingers gripped his. "Promise," she whispered.

* * *

Jolting awake, Mike winced on a curse as pain ratcheted through his body. Hitting an air pocket, his elbow slammed into the side of the gurney. Gracelessly, he grabbed for the metal edge trying to avoid being dumped to the floor, even as he realized his reaction time was way too slow.

A strong, square-tipped hand caught him at the last instant. Staggering, Hawke struggled to maintain his footing and keep his friend out of the floor. "Not sure I would've picked now to rejoin the land of the living, Rivers, if I were you," he rasped dryly.

The plane lurched again, slamming Mike's shoulder into the bulkhead and sprawling String across his arm.

Mike bit back a groan, as String hurriedly shoved himself free. "You know me," he gasped. "Wouldn't want to miss all the fun. What're they doing up there? Flyin' a demolition derby?"

One side of Hawke's mouth hiked into a wry grin. "Would explain a lot. Think they were dressed like Air Force pilots."

Mike gave a half-choked laugh. "Just so long as they're not Army."


	25. Chapter 25

Wearily, Jo burrowed into her husband's side, where he sat propped on the edge of the hospital bed.

It hadn't impressed Nurse Ratchet as she'd already dubbed her, when she'd come in fifteen minutes earlier - ordering him out with the information visiting hours were over. Irritation had had her slamming the door behind her on her way out.

Saint John hadn't moved. His fingers were securely tangled in hers and she could tell from the exhausted slump of his shoulders and his breathing he was almost asleep.

_Cuba was a long way from California._

It was clear though, he wasn't leaving. Contentment slid over her like a warm blanket as she settled against him, feeling the solid weight of his arm tighten protectively around her.

Drowsily, she blinked fighting sleep, wanting to hang on to the moment. For now, at least, it seemed they'd gotten their second chance. There was just one thing that bothered her, a forgotten thought that niggled at her subconscious. Idly, she turned Sinj's earlier words over in her head, trying to remember what it might be.

Floating tendril crystallized into thought, clear and sharp - jolting her back to alertness. "A son," she whispered.

_He'd said son. She was sure Sinj'd said son. Every reference to the baby had been to a boy. He'd said his son was a Hawke, a fighter…_

_But how could he know? She wasn't far enough along for the doctors to say…at least she didn't think so._

"Sinj," she whispered. Jostling his arm, she tried to wake him.

He drew a deep breath, obviously almost beyond her reach. "Hmmph?" he slurred, nearly dead to the world.

_Could it be?_

Hope slid unbidden across her heart, a smile lighting her weary features.

_Maybe. Just maybe…_

* * *

Cait put down the satellite phone, shooting Tuyen a worried look. Neither woman looked at the kids huddled in the bay window watching the storm.

"It is news?" Tuyen asked, her earlier forebodings coming back in full force.

"Yeah," the younger woman murmured, smoothing the afghan beside her with shaking hands. "That was Marella," she swallowed hard. "It seems they've lost radio contact with the C-130. They think maybe a possible lightening strike."

Horror slid across Tuyen's face. "They are lost?" she whispered.

Cait took a deep breath, trying to stave off her own tears. "They don't know. The others have been called. They've decided to wait at Redstar for news. Whatever it is, they'll hear it first."

Tuyen nodded. "I will help you get the kids ready."

Caitlin shook her head, her slender fingers knotting in the threads of the well-worn afghan. "I'm not going, Tuyen," she whispered. "I want you to take the kids and go with Marella."

Stunned, the Vietnamese woman stared at her. _Hawke was her husband, of course she would go…_Pain filled her heart. "Why?" she demanded. "If this is because of me…"

"No," Cait whispered hoarsely, glancing in the children's direction. "You've been a friend to me, to both of us in the truest sense of the word…"

"Then why…?"

Caitlin met her gaze, her blue-green eyes full of sadness. "I already thought I lost him once this year. If it comes to that, the kids will be better off with their family. Seb, Roper, Saint John - they'll know what to do."

Consternation filled the other woman's eyes. "And what about you?" she demanded.

Cait's gaze went to the lake just barely visible outside the window, her thoughts on String's loud boisterous family and the solitary man she'd married. Unshed tears glistened on the coppery lashes.

_He'd had faith for sixteen years he'd find Saint John, she'd just have to have the same faith he'd make it home to her._

"A part of String's soul has always been here," she whispered. "I'm not alone, and no matter what happens I won't be." Blue-green eyes implored her to understand.

_A memory of a much younger Stringfellow Hawke cradling her son in blood-stained fingers and facing down a sentry guard came to mind._

_He hadn't left her then, and he wouldn't leave Caitlin now._

She nodded. "I'll tell Marella."

* * *

Afghan wrapped around slender shoulders, Caitlin raised a hand in farewell, watching the white Jet Ranger sweep over the water.

Telling the kids goodbye had been hard. Not crying had been even harder.

It had been clear the others hadn't understood. She wasn't sure she did herself, she thought, wrapping the blanket tighter against her shoulders in the sharp bite of the evening wind.

The helicopter swung out of sight around the mountains.

She just knew she felt String here, in the taste of the wind and in the worn warmth of the cabin where he'd held her and they'd made love throughout the years.

Red Star couldn't offer her that. Not now, not ever.

"Come on, Hawke," she whispered, drawing the blanket closer as she sat down on the scarred porch steps, evening starting to fall. "I'm waiting."

* * *

The flight home to Los Angeles Air Force Base was one of the longest String had ever endured, the landing gear touching down on the tarmac with a squeal.

Mike slept fitfully through it all.

Hawke watched with guarded blue eyes as Sarah and the doctors ran to meet the plane. Her fingers wrapped around Mike's good ones and didn't let go.

Saint John and the others hung back giving them room. Jo and Cait were nowhere in sight he realized with worry tightening his chest. And then Nicky and 'Melia were swarming over him, Seb and Roper enthusiastically pounding him on the back, Saint John giving him a rough hug before he trotted off after Mike and Sarah.

Behind them, Michael leaned heavily on his cane, Marella at his side. As the welcome subsided he stepped forward, flashing Hawke a grin as he offered him a hearty handshake. "Good to have you back, old man," he teased. "Was beginning to wonder if you were going to get my plane back intact."

Marella rolled her eyes, shoving her husband aside as she offered Hawke a warm hug. "It's good to have you back, String," she murmured. "Even if Michael is too much of a tough guy to admit so."

Hawke and Michael grinned. They might snap and snarl at each other, but it was clear they trusted each other implicitly. They'd laid their lives on the line for the other too many times not to.

"Feel free to hire a younger pilot anytime, Michael," Hawke retorted.

Archangel grimaced. He'd about decided between worrying about Airwolf, her crew, the T-3 and a missing C-130 he was going to develop an ulcer. "No, thanks," he rebutted. "I've got enough trouble keeping the ones I've got in line."

The grin slowly slid from String's face as he looked for Cait across the tarmac and didn't find her. His chin raised defensively. "Where're Cait and Tuyen?" he asked quietly.

Archangel swung, casting a surprised glance behind him. "Tuyen was here a moment ago…"

"And Cait…?" Hawke asked.

Michael cast a concerned glance Marella's way. She might not have told him everything, but he knew enough to sense there was a problem. He'd been as concerned as her when Caitlin hadn't shown today.

She smiled, perhaps a trifle too brightly and wrapped a slender arm through Hawke's, urging him towards the buildings at the end of the runway. Michael fell into step beside them.

"Maybe we should find Tuyen first?" she suggested. "I know she had some things she wanted to discuss with you. She'd also said something about needing to get back to Colorado…"

String halted, pulling Marella to a stop beside him. "Where's Cait?" he demanded quietly.

Marella sighed. "At the cabin, Hawke. She refused to come to Red Star with the others to wait. I offered to fly her and the kids in."

Hawke frowned, nodding. He looked away for a brief moment exhaling on a sharp breath. He was clearly worried.

"Fine," he said soberly. "I'll talk to Tuyen, but I need you to find me a way back to the hangar, Marella."

She nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Shell-shocked, Sarah sat on the edge of the bed holding Mike's good hand in hers. She knew she wouldn't have been in there at all, except for Michael stepping in and pulling some strings.

As girlfriend, she'd soon found she didn't rate next of kin status, didn't rate much of anything. It was a sobering thought.

Not nearly as much so though, as the ones the doctors were laying out for them now.

She swallowed, trying hard to look brave. When Mike had been shot down, she'd been terrified he'd been killed or hurt, that the Cubans might torture him. That had paled into a distant memory as the doctors now discussed necrosis and tissue death, infection, and the possibility Mike might loose his arm. Best case scenario they were painting was nerve damage.

She swallowed again, fighting a rising wave of nausea, her thoughts framming like a wild bird against a cage. This wasn't supposed to be happening…couldn't be happening. Mike was one of the good guys.

She drew in a ragged breath, her fingers tightening spasmodically on Mike's.

Wincing, Rivers' dark blue eyes glanced her way, taking in her pinched, white face. _He was feeling more than a little sick himself. He'd like to chalk it up to the antibiotics, but suddenly he wasn't so sure._

"Look, could we maybe do this later?" he rasped, hoping sympathy would outweigh rank for once. "I've had about all I can handle for one day."

Samuel Peters, Chief of Surgery at Las Angeles Air Force Base frowned. He wasn't used to having his authority questioned. "Look Major Rivers, I don't think you understand the seriousness of the matter at hand. It can't wait…"

Mike grimaced. He'd cut the painkillers by half this morning when the nurse had come in, wanting to be clear-headed for this consult. At the moment, he was thinking it'd been a bad idea.

"Five minutes," he snapped, desperation throbbing in his voice. "Just give me five minutes, and then you can do whatever you have to do." His tone was grim.

The doctor glanced from the fever-flushed pilot in front of him to the pale-faced woman stood next to him. _Maybe they did get it, he thought with a rare, wry twist of sympathy in his gut. _He turned, ushering his protesting colleague out. "We'll be back in five minutes, Major Rivers," he warned. "Make it quick."

The door closed behind him unnoticed.

Dark blue eyes collided with Sarah's lighter ones. The dream of losing her came back to him with startling clarity. "We okay?" Mike whispered hoarsely.

Her stomach churned and she felt it roil uneasily. Her tear-filled gaze dropped.

"Sarah?" he asked uncertainly, his eyes searching her face. Pain was chewing along his nerve endings, but it was nothing next to what he was feeling in his heart. "Are we okay?"

She crossed her fingers and raised her eyes, flashing him a tremulous and shaky grin, doing the only thing she knew to do.

_She lied._

"Yeah, Mike," she whispered, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "We're fine."

* * *

Hawke didn't find Tuyen at the air base. It was a move in retrospect he should've expected. She'd never been one for big scenes.

Instead, he found himself hitching a ride home to Van Nuys airfield with Marella, courtesy of Angel One. It was a move he felt guilty for even though she'd insisted she had to get back to Red Star on 'urgent' business.

He had a feeling the 'urgent' business could be summed up by the manila envelope in his lap, detailing the dissolution of a marriage twenty-five years ago and signed by a judge he'd never heard of.

He was willing to bet she had though.

Flaring, the skids of the Long Ranger touched down on the tarmac outside Santini Air.

Reaching for the door, Hawke hesitated. "Thanks, Marella," he murmured, awkwardly. "For everything."

She nodded. Her chocolate brown eyes worried. "Let me know if you need help finding her, Hawke."

He nodded silently, not saying anything.

Dropping out of the helicopter, he latched the door behind him, ducking swishing rotor blades, before heading towards the open hangar. Pausing at the edge of the hangar, he watched Angel One take off.

_Not surprisingly, the helicopter headed back towards Los Angeles Air Force Base._

Turning, Hawke sensed he had company long before he saw her - a slim wisp of a woman perched on the workbench table, dark hair falling over her shoulders. Tuyen, he thought, feeling the first real smile he'd felt in hours.

"Wondered where you'd got to," he said hoarsely, pacing across the hangar towards her.

She gave him a sad smile as he sat down on the bench next to her. "It did not seem the right place for us to say goodbye."

No, he guessed not. The thing was, he thought, watching the pale light from the dying afternoon sun glint on the simple band she wore on her right hand, he wasn't sure there was one.

Not then, not now. He shifted awkwardly. "Is that…?" he motioned, pointing.

She smiled, sliding the ring off, hefting it's slight weight in her palm for a moment. A much larger stone glittered on her left. "Yes," she murmured, "It is the one you gave me."

Gently, she placed it in his hand.

Frowning, Hawke took it, sliding his thumb over its smooth surface, remembering all too well the embarrassment he'd felt when he'd placed it on her finger; knowing all too well it'd been all he could afford at the time.

_Not much of a prize to give the woman who'd saved your life from the PRU death squads, and you'd given your name to - no matter how temporarily. Regret welled in him._

Hastily, he handed it back to her, thankful he wasn't having to explain this to Cait. He wasn't sure she'd understand, he sure as hang didn't.

"You kept it?" he croaked. "Why?"

Tuyen slid the plain gold band back onto her finger. "To remind me of you," she said simply. "You have been the best friend I have ever had."

Faint laughter lines creased the skin around her eyes as she smiled up at him, nudging him with her shoulder. "Cait is very lucky to have you, Hawke."

He wondered if Cait would agree. At the moment, somehow he wasn't so sure. "And your fiance?" he rasped, gesturing to the ring she wore. "How does he feel about it?" He found it hard to believe another man would be so sanguine about her wearing his ring.

Dark brown eyes met his, as she wrapped her fingers in his companionably. "You saved my life. I would not be here, nor would my son, if it were not for you. I have not forgotten that. Neither has Robert."

Hawke stared at her, wondering not for the first time, who had saved who all those years ago in Vietnam. To this day, he wasn't real sure and it occurred to him, he might never know.

The thought opened up a dull ache in his chest. He swallowed, afraid he'd say something stupid. His gaze caught on the manila envelope beside her and he said the first thing that came to mind.

"Marella gave you the papers?"

Tuyen nodded, pulling her fingers from his. She wrapped her arms around herself. "Yes," she said softly. Dark silken hair fell forward around her shoulders, and without asking, Hawke knew she was crying, much as she had all those years ago at the airport, much as he'd felt like doing when he'd held her last letter in Vietnam.

_Damn. Who would've thought goodbye the second time around would hurt so much…_

He pulled her into an awkward hug, knowing this time it really was goodbye. "I'm going to miss you," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

"And I you, Hawke," she rejoined, pulling back, her hand caressing his cheek. The dark eyes that had always seen too much, searched his. "She loves you, you know."

He hoped so. He gave her a weary, lopsided grin. "Well, I love her anyway."

She nodded, dropping down off the bench and turning to take one last look at the hangar as if to assure herself the boy she'd known all those years ago had really made it back. _He had, they both had somehow._

Her fingers slid across his one last time.

"Goodbye, String," she whispered. And then she was gone, not looking back.

* * *

_Always was a long time. _The thought occurred to Cait as she stared at the greying evening sky, only beginning to be sprinkled with diamonds. She sighed, watching the shadows.

He'd meant it too, she mused, recalling the feel of String's fingers tangled in hers, the taste of coffee on his lips, the crack of vulnerability in his voice on the rare occasions he told her he loved her.

She'd never doubted him, waking up far too many times over the years from a close call to find him watching guard over her, and knowing he'd risked his life to save hers.

That he would again.

Hawke was a guy in it for the long haul. She wasn't sure why it'd taken Tuyen to remind her of that. To remind her, in the grand scheme of things that a piece of paper meant nothing...

_And that a promise meant everything._

Blinking back tears, Caitlin rose from the step, gathering the blanket around her shoulders, the cold at last enough to drive even her in. Darkness had fallen.

* * *

Rolling his shoulders in a weary shrug, String landed the Bell Jet Ranger on the darkened dock. Somewhere between the hangar and the cabin, night had fallen, leaving the skies clear and cold with a sprinkling of stars.

_It would've been the perfect night, if he'd had someone to share it with. Assuming of course, that someone was Cait._

Gut clenching with anxiety, he swung down from the helicopter onto the dock, the wind off the lake rifling his hair.

He still had no idea what to say to Cait, and he didn't think the icy feeling in his chest had a thing to do with the wind.

The possibility that he might've finally pushed his luck with her too far loomed frighteningly real in his mind.

It had been a possibility that had seemed more real with every passing moment. A possibility that he hadn't been able to put out of his mind since he'd told her goodbye two days ago, knowing well and good that it might be forever. Every marriage had its limits. He just wasn't so sure why he seemed determined to test his.

_He loved her. He wasn't sure why he was so abysmally bad at telling her that, why it felt like tempting fate just to say the words, but he loved her more than life itself._

Frustration, mostly with himself, had him raking an impatient hand through already mussed hair. He could only hope this thing with Tuyen hadn't cost him the chance to tell her.

He knew he'd hurt her, hurt her badly. That she'd viewed his omission as a betrayal. It hadn't been his intention. It had just been…_complicated_, he thought with a sigh.

Smoke wafted from the cabin chimney, the acrid smoke reminding him again how cold it was and he hunched his shoulders against the chill night air. He picked up his flagging pace.

_Well, at least she hadn't left…yet._

He heaved in a doubtful breath, his steps echoing hollowly on the dock beneath his feet.

Climbing the worn wood steps to the cabin, he sensed her before he heard her, knowing instinctively it was Cait who waited on him in the shadows.

He froze, glancing up, whatever words he might've said caught on the lump in his throat. The only thought that sliced across his mind, being the bitter wind and that it was far too cold for her to be out here.

Swallowing, he managed her name, cursing himself for five kinds of stupid even as the words escaped his mouth. "Cait," he rasped, "what're you doing out here?"

"Waiting for you," she whispered, dragging the blanket about her shoulders and taking a half step towards him. She shivered in the night air.

His fingers tightened on the rail at the vulnerability in her face, knowing he'd put it there, vulnerability that hadn't been there since the early days of their relationship.

It felt like a punch in the gut.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I should've told you about Tuyen."

She nodded, taking another step. "Yeah, you should've," she murmured, not giving him an inch.

String raked a frustrated hand through his hair. "It's just that it was…"

"Complicated," Cait sighed. "Somehow, with you it always is."

He grimaced, wishing he could take it back, that there was some way to explain…

"I'll take you anyway," Caitlin whispered, her fingers reaching out and catching his.


	26. Chapter 26

Epilogue -

Firelight flickered in the open hearth at the other side of the loft, bathing the room in a warm, orange glow.

Stretching languidly, Caitlin wiggled her toes against the blankets, more content than she'd been in a long time. Her fingers tangled with Hawke's, his thumb brushing idly against the delicate skin of her knuckles.

_This was perfection, she thought._

It didn't stop her from giving him grief though, the slightest, small grin teasing her lips.

"Hey, String," Cait murmured. "Are there any other women I need to know about?"

He grinned, pulling her closer in his arms, his blue eyes wicked as he rolled her beneath him in a tangle of blankets. He chuckled, "Now Cait, you know you're the only woman in my life."

"Better be," she whispered, suddenly serious.

His lips claimed hers in a kiss that shared more than his words ever could. "You are," he promised.


End file.
